


The Space In Between

by CamilleCM



Category: Friends (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Before Sunrise AU, Drama & Romance, F/M, London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-09-24 20:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17107787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleCM/pseuds/CamilleCM
Summary: Chandler and Monica meet on a train to London, they discover a unique intimate bond, and spend a day talking and connecting, stuck between the thrill and intoxication of romantic possibility and the bitterness of reality. AU Mondler, premise based on the 1995 "Before Sunrise" movie.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

> "I believe if there's any kind of God it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little  **space in between**. If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt."   **Before Sunrise (1995).**

****

*** * * * * ***

**_July 1995_ **

The taxi stopped and dropped him just outside Paris Gare du Nord, he paid the driver and mumbled an awkward  _merci_  before running towards the station. Once inside, he took a look at the flap display, the train would leave soon. He started to panic and ran as quickly as his legs could carry him. The inside of the station was congested and busy and he was starting to lose hope when his eyes caught the Eurostar section of the station, he started running again, skipping the steps of the escalator. He arrived just in time to check his ticket, clear immigration and board the train. Once inside the train, he could finally settle but he was out of breath and wiped the sweat off his face. He really could use some exercise, he thought to himself.

As he took his seat and stored his bag in the overhead bin, the train conductor announced the train would be delayed by 15 minutes. "Of course," whispered Chandler, these are the typical daily happenstances that only seem to happen to him.

A group of young men, who were shouting loudly, boarded. At least, he wasn't that late, Chandler thought. He took his Discman out, inserted a CD, the music started playing in his headphones and he zoned out, looking through the window as the train started.

Tiredness catching up with him, Chandler dozed off against the window for a while until movement in the front jolted him out of his sleep. A young woman he could only see from the back was talking to the group of noisy passengers. Visibly annoyed, she grabbed her suitcase and her bag and walked towards the back. Not wanting to appear nosy, Chandler averted his eyes, focusing instead on the newspaper lying on the table.

Monica started to look for another seat a few rows back. She found a seat across the aisle from a young man with headphones on and somehow reading a newspaper at the same time. She briefly looked at him then settled in her seat, opened a book and started reading.

Chandler took his headphones off. He looked at the woman at his left. Then at the front where the noisy men were still shouting.

For a moment, he wondered if she was French or British. French, she definitely had to be French if he had to go with an answer on the spot. He examined her profile as she looked at the window, her hair was not too long, not too short. Not too straight nor too curly, with a very dark shade contrasting with her pale skin. She was wearing a dark tank top with polka dots over a t-shirt, high-waisted jeans, and flat shoes. She definitely wouldn't be out of place in a New Wave French movie, in his opinion. Suddenly, she looked up at her right, and they made brief eye contact. The shouting at the front persisting, Chandler shook his head and Monica smiled shyly at him. They followed the action with their eyes as a train stewardess escorted the group of men to the back, and as they passed them, Chandler and Monica found themselves looking straight at each other.

Monica chuckled and Chandler grinned at her.

Still wondering whether she was French or English, Chandler decided to take the plunge, and clumsily asked, "Pardon mademoiselle."

Monica looked perplexed and cut him off. "I'm sorry, I don't speak French very well."

With a surprised look on his face, Chandler laughed. "I'm the one who should be sorry ... I don't speak French either, I just assumed you were."

She smiled.

"I was going to ask if these guys were bothering you earlier?" he added.

"Oh, no, they didn't bother me, I mean just a little, they were talking really loud, they were shouting in fact. I couldn't read in peace, and when I asked to bring the volume down a bit, they were so rude. Frankly, I think they're wasted."

As she was talking, somehow both in a self-assured and an uncertain way, every so often tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Chandler couldn't look away from her eyes, he decided he'd never seen such electrifying blue eyes before in his life. Bright and sparkling when a ray of sunshine would meet her face, yet calm and deep in the shade. They were everything, and nothing, all at once.

"Right," he answered, kicking himself mentally for not coming up with a better answer to keep the conversation going.

She looked at the back again, then turned to him. "What do you think they're going to do to them?"

"I'd say they're getting a fine, but I was on a train once and this drunk guy got kicked out. I really hope they'll wait until we're inside the Tunnel to drop them off, but maybe that's a little harsh."

"Only slightly." She smiled, picking up on his sarcasm.

There was then an awkward moment of silence, both not knowing whether they should keep talking or not. Monica glanced back down at her book, Chandler kept looking at her.

"What are you reading?" asked Chandler.

She held up the book so he could see the title.

"Oh, The Prophecy of Celestine. Isn't that some weird pseudo-religious bull..." He stopped realizing he was about to quip, and she definitely didn't know him well enough not to get offended by the remark. As he stopped talking, she looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish that sentence. "I mean, isn't that the spiritual best-seller—"

"Yes, it is." She smirked. "It's actually really good and profound, that is if you're not an elitist snob of course."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you, I'm sure it's good," replied Chandler with a pleading look. Her face softened at his apology.

"And what are you reading, Mister Skeptismo?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. "You know, keeping up with the news around the globe and such," he said holding up the paper.

"That's Le Monde. I thought you didn't speak French."

"I—" He racked his brain for a good answer, then he sighed and gave up. "I was actually looking at the ads, and the caricatures." He could sense she was trying not to laugh. "Ok you win, that doesn't make me look good."

"No no … what were you listening to before then?" she asked, pointing to his headphones resting behind his neck.

He looked down at his Discman, hesitating. "You know what, on second thought, the newspaper makes me look just fine."

She scoffed. "Oh come on, you're no fun!" Seeing his slightly embarrassed face, she decided to go easier on him. "Look, I'm the one here reading a pseudo-religious, spiritual new age bullshit book."

A grin accompanied his nod. "I was listening to a recording of Annie," he said in a slightly lower voice.

"Oh, that's nice."

"I know you expected something more … manly."

"No, it's fine, I told you I wouldn't judge and I'm not judging." They both smiled, visibly more comfortable with each other's presence now.

As she returned to her book, Chandler was in an internal battle of his own, he didn't want the conversation to end, but didn't want to seem pushy either. Then, as the train entered the tunnel, he summoned the courage to ask her.

"Hey, I was wondering if I could sit with you? See, you have a better view on your side."

She laughed at his joke as he pointed to the darkness out of the window.

"Sure," she simply answered.

He settled facing her from the other side of the table seat.

"So, what's an American girl doing on a train trip from Paris to London?"


	2. Chapter 2

 

Monica stared at Chandler hesitantly, he was sensing the doubt radiating from her, so he simply smiled reassuringly. She cleared her throat. "I have a wedding to attend this weekend."

"A wedding? Interesting." He marked a pause before suddenly tensing. "Wait, is it … yours?"

She winced, coughing out a nervous laugh as if it was the most ridiculous suggestion. "No, not mine." She paused for a moment to collect herself. "I'm sure the American guy on a train trip from Paris to London has a far more interesting story," she added, pointing to him.

Chandler shrugged. "Unlikely. Besides, as a matter of principle, I always assume other people's lives are more fascinating than mine. Even when I'm on a train to London, it feels terribly mundane."

"You think traveling is mundane?"

"Sure, if you think about it. It's romanticized a lot."

Her eyebrows lifted. "How's that?"

Casually sinking into his seat, he held his hands with cool detachment. "Well, if you were at home, just sitting down for hours, reading a book, looking through the window, you'd feel like a loser. But you do it while traveling and it's an adventure," Chandler said with a self-satisfied smirk.

"It  _is_  an adventure!" Monica exclaimed, with a gaping mouth. "What do you have against traveling in Europe's greatest cities?"

"Nothing, traveling is just so predictable and boring. It's a scam really. Nowhere as exciting as made out to be in the novels."

Monica eyed him suspiciously, what a strange outlook on life, she thought to herself.

"That's the most original conspiracy theory I've ever heard," she said with a sarcastic nod.

Chandler smiled. "You heard of ghostwriters, right? Well, I'm sorry to inform you that Jack Kerouac's novels were actually written by some minions who worked for the top travel agencies of the country," he said dryly, " _On The Road_  was, in fact, shameless advertising."

She laughed and he slowly joined her.

"I'm Chandler, by the way. I feel like I should have established that earlier." He extended a hand to her, grinning.

"Monica." She returned his smile and took his hand. Chandler couldn't help but notice her strong grip.

"That's a pretty name."

"Thanks. Yours is really … unusual," she said uncertainly.

"Thank you, I picked it myself." Chandler joked with a playful look.

Monica chuckled, talking to a guy she just met shouldn't feel this natural. Every time he smiled with shiny eyes, and laughed with the most genuine and pure emotion, she felt the irresistible impulse to smile back at him. She had to remind herself that they were two strangers on a train, unlikely to ever meet again.

"So, what about this wedding, are you excited?" Chandler asked, bringing her out of her thoughts.

Caught by surprise, she was quick to respond, "I kinda have to." She let slip with a tinge of sadness in her voice, before pulling herself together, "It's my brother's."

"May I say, you seem very happy for him," said Chandler in a sarcastic tone.

"Oh, no it's not like that. I  _am_  happy for him, but it's his second wedding, my whole family will be there, and they're going to ask me If I have someone  _at least_ , dropping hints in a very passive-aggressive way." She realized she might have said too much and feared she came off as weak and desperate. "I don't know, maybe it will be fun and I'm just making a big deal out of it." She shrugged her shoulders with a slightly forced smile.

"I get what you mean, I hate weddings too." Chandler didn't pick on the bitterness the subject evoked in her. "Watching two people forced to commit, under the pressure of social norms and other people's expectations, I mean it's like this pressure cooker—" His voice trailed off when he caught the indignant expression on her face.

"Wait, wait, let me stop you there." Her whole demeanor changed, she was suddenly annoyed. "I don't hate weddings. I happen to love weddings, and marriage is not a  _pressure cooker_ , it's a commitment, a lifetime promise, to solidify a bond and deepen a relationship," she said in an animated tone. He was taken aback for a moment, she could go from sweet and collected to fiery and passionate in a flash. Chandler realized he didn't want to be the reason she was upset.

"Oh yeah, I mean, no, you're right. Just forget I said anything. I was obviously joking."

Monica let out a laugh at his answer. "No, you were not!" She relaxed again. "You can disagree with me you know, I already agreed to let you sit here."

"I'm sorry, I had no intention to—"

She interrupted him again. "You apologize a lot."

Now it was Chandler who straightened himself in his seat. "Ok, here's the deal. I say a lot of stupid things. Then I apologize. I know what you're thinking, you're wondering why don't I just stop saying stupid things, but I enjoy doing both, and I feel it's more entertaining to watch me dig my own hole anyway."

"It's fine. It's kinda sweet," Monica said with a deep smile. It was more than sweet, it was adorable to her. He could be clumsy, but it was impossible to stay mad at him.

"What about you? What brings you to London?" she asked.

"Actually I have a flight home tomorrow morning, I'm having dinner tonight with my mom, she wants to introduce me to her third or fourth husband. I lost count."

"Good to know we're both thrilled to get there."

They smiled shyly at each other, and after a silent pause, Monica couldn't control her curiosity.

"Where is home?" she asked.

"Los Angeles. Do you live in Paris?" Chandler slightly tensed, they just met but he knew this particular answer held a lot of weight, to him at least.

"No. I'll go back to Paris after the wedding to finish my internship, then go home, in New York," said Monica, studying his reaction. He was inscrutable. She was surprised at feeling disappointed. They lived thousands of miles away from each other, this could only be a fleeting encounter, even if it was an enjoyable one admittedly.

"You're a New Yorker?" asked Chandler.

"I'm from Long Island."

"I used to live in New York. I went to college there. What's the internship about?" he asked casually, he considered it was better to change the subject in light of their respective locations.

"French cooking. I get to assist some famous chefs and take classes."

"You're a chef?" he asked, he didn't know why he sounded so surprised.

"Aspiring chef. I was a line cook after graduating, but once I get back to New York I have a job as assistant chef lined up." Her face seemed to immediately lighten up at the mere mention of work.

"That's cool. Do you like it?"

"I love it. It's the greatest job in the world and my dream since I was a little girl. I just wanted to pick up a knife and create something with my hands. What about you? Are you working?"

Chandler was amused, his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but after she asked one of his least favorite questions, he felt waves of embarrassment wash over him and looked down reflexively.

"I—I have a stupid job like everyone else," he said nonchalantly.

"Is it boring? It doesn't make you happy?"

"No, it's ... decent. Just a regular office job that pays the rent for an LA apartment and an Italian roommate to feed."

She chuckled, thinking he was joking but Chandler kept a straight face. "You financially support your roommate?"

"He's my best friend, I'm just helping him out while he tries to become a famous actor in Hollywood. He wants to be the next Al Pacino."

"You're hoping he gets famous and returns the favor?" She grinned.

"Yes, that is exactly how I plan to get rich. You uncovered my evil plan."

Monica laughed and his eyes crinkled in a smile.

Some time has passed and they talked and laughed with more ease. They seemed more relaxed with each other and a little less self-conscious.

Chandler had completely captured her attention, and she decided to indulge the attraction she felt towards him for the rest of the trip. It may have blossomed into something more, in a different place and a different time, but Monica knew this was going to end eventually, and that made her more forthright.

"Why don't you ever want to get married?" she asked after a quiet moment, in a half-serious voice.

He gave her a questioning look and then proceeded to answer, "I just never thought about it. But I feel it's one of those 'two kinds of people' things, You're either cut out for it, or you're not. I'm pretty sure I don't have the emotional tools to handle it."

"You would never consider it, even in say 10 or 20 years?"

"When I'm 40? Maybe. Probably not." He looked up, and stared into her eyes. "Where do you see yourself in 10 to 20 years?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

With a pensive look and crossed armed, she cleared her throat and took a professional tone. "First of all, married. Three or four kids. A house in the suburbs, with a backyard and a pool. I'd run my own restaurant, somewhere in Manhattan, a cozy, authentic place, not too big and not too small, with a beautiful view over the city, it would be one of the most prestigious ones in New York. And … I don't know, it's still a blurry picture for now."

He watched her incredulously. "That's your definition of a blurry picture?" He couldn't fight a chuckle. "All of that doesn't freak you out? I was sweating from panic just listening to you!"

She rolled her eyes at him. "It's a lot of hard work, but I'm sure I'll get there. If you're not gonna get married, where do you see yourself when you're forty?" She smirked at him.

"I'd like to stay exactly the same. Maybe have some fun, but endure as little pain as possible," said Chandler, looking very pleased with himself.

She gasped. "That's sad. And insane!" she said in a disbelieving voice.

"Sad maybe, but not more insane than having every detail of your life already planned," he retorted with a lopsided grin.

"I just set goals to myself, it keeps me on my toes. You should try it."

"But it's pretty unrealistic, don't you think?" Chandler said, more earnestly this time.

"How so? Am I so unmarriable? Shouldn't I aim to be the best at my job?"

He realized she was easier to offend than he first thought.

"No no … I'm sure guys are lining up to marry you, and you're great at your job." He made sure not to come off as sarcastic or cutting. "All I'm saying, how are you gonna have your family in the suburbs and own a restaurant in downtown New York?"

Monica didn't expect him to come up with such a reasonable argument. "There are maybe some details to iron out, but life is pointless without ambition. Aim for the moon and all that. Don't you have some shred of … hopes and dreams?"

"You know, when you grow up, people project all sorts of their own dashed hopes and failed ambitions onto you. They keep telling you what you should be doing with your life, which is funny because the adults themselves have no idea. Let's say I was immunized. Hope is a trap and a cruel joke."

"God, was your childhood that bad?" she uttered jokingly.

"You have no idea." Chandler was faking a thin smile that didn't go unnoticed to her.

She leaned forward, her eyes fixated on him with a compassionate look. "Was it?" she asked very softly.

He stayed silent, feeling disarmed, he swallowed a lump in his throat, then looked away. "You are a bit pushy, aren't you?"

"Just a little intrigued." Monica offered an encouraging smile.

"I don't know … It was fine I guess. It's just weird that I don't remember much of it. I remember the significant, traumatic moments, but I have no sweet memories. No tender small moments in the backyard playing with a hose or an exciting Christmas morning. You know the drill, only child, busy parents in a crappy marriage, it was lonely is what I'm trying to say." he sighed and shook his head.

"I have a brother and all he did when we were growing up was tease me all the time and get his way with my parents. It's not less painful." She joked, the corners of her mouth quirking up.

"Sure. But I guess it's not just about siblings. It's the unhappiness of the people around you, it made me feel like being happy was abnormal." Chandler was averting her gaze, half-smiling.

"I see, I'm sorry to hear that. I wasn't trying to belittle your experience. You're right, although I hated my brother at times, he was sweet and I can't really complain."

"It's okay, you don't have to be sorry for your normal childhood."

Monica chuckled nervously, she sensed the tense turn the conversation was taking, but she still wanted to know him better as she felt he was holding back for her.

"It was a normal childhood, but maybe because I was still carefree. At that age, there a lot of things you just don't worry about. You don't worry about how you look, what people expect of you or whether you're good enough, you're not so eager to please."

"Do you feel all these things now?"

It was his turn now to lean forward, his eyes filled with kindness.

"Sometimes. But I guess we all do," she said in a quiet voice, looking down.

"I don't really care about what I look, or about pleasing people in all honesty. And look at me, see the result."

She laughed, and he was pleased his joke uplifted her mood.

Monica wondered what exactly made her feel that pull to Chandler, it couldn't just be contextual or superficial. She was trying and failing, to rationalize that feeling - Sure, he was handsome. Light brown hair, disheveled and messy, with dreamy blue eyes, and he was smart, she could tell, witty with a zinger always ready to fly and deflect any threat of looming emotional intensity. She thought of herself as a guarded person, but he was on another level, yet his reluctance was encouraging her to share what was weighing on her mind. Or maybe, it was the fact that he was a stranger, and it's easier to talk to strangers, to people you'll never see again, no strings, no consequences, and no judgment. She was willing to tear down the walls around her innermost thoughts for this strangely magnetic man.

"A few months back, my grandmother died, she was the sweetest person. I lived with her when I moved to the city, and when she moved to Florida, she left me her amazing, rent-controlled apartment, I couldn't afford it otherwise. That was the most generous thing someone has ever done for me. She was a saint. At the funeral, my mother was picking on every little thing I did wrong, she told me that her mother did the same and that I was lucky she was different with me. And all I can think about since then is whether I'll behave the same way with my own children. Completely unaware when I am hurting them. It freaks me out." Her voice trailed off. She looked up at him. "Do you think it's inevitable that we'll eventually turn into our parents?"

"I—I honestly don't know."

"But you don't want to get married because of your parents, right?" she asked him.

"No, I mean partly, it's not just my parents, it's all the people I know, every relationship I witnessed. But you, I'm sure it will be different for you, I may not know you very well, and you may have questionable literary taste," he joked before continuing, "but you do seem very kind and caring, and I have a feeling your kids are going to be fine."

"I don't know if you really mean it but it's sweet."

"Their mom is going to own the best restaurant in town with the best French food ever, they would be lucky kids!" he said around a laugh and she smiled at him.

A weighty silence hung in the air for a moment, Monica was looking out of the window, absentmindedly staring at the scenery. Chandler couldn't bring himself to do the same, and instead, he focused on her, rehashing and replaying in his mind her confessions. He never thought of himself as someone affable or easy to talk to. He could relate to the strained relationship she seemed to have with her mother. However, he might be the king of all father and mother issues, he still couldn't quite grasp that someone so beautiful, so well put together and in control would have all these insecurities buried deep within them. Her hands were on the table, playing and fumbling inattentively with the zipper of her jacket as she was taking in all the views of the emerging London landscape, completely lost in her thoughts. He wanted to hold her hands and tell her she was okay, and that no one should make her feel this way. He remembered her strong grip, but he also remembered how soft her hands felt brushing against his, and now it all made sense to him. He felt the urge inside him to hold them, he extended his hand, excruciatingly hesitant, his pulse quickening, but just as he was about to touch them, she moved her head, he withdrew his hand immediately. She glanced at him, giving him a half smile, which he returned before taking a deep breath.

The train conductor announced the arrival at Waterloo Station.

They both looked up at the same time, listening to the announcement. They stared at each other with bittersweet smiles.

"When is the wedding?" asked Chandler.

"Tomorrow," she said as she was methodically putting her things back in her bag.

"Anything planned for today?"

"Sightseeing, it's my first time visiting London. I have to go to the hotel, check on my parents and my brother, then pick up my bridesmaid dress."

"Sounds like a busy schedule." He paused. "That's a drag. I really enjoyed talking to you."

She stopped arranging her bag. "Yeah, I enjoyed talking to you too."

The train came to a final stop. The doors about to open and the passengers getting ready to deboard. Chandler got up to grab his bag, but he suddenly froze as if seized with sudden inspiration.

He bit his lip then looked intensely at Monica.

"I have a crazy idea. If I don't say anything, I know I'll regret it for the rest of my life. And this is definitely one of the stupid things I'll apologize for later, I'm sure you're going to maybe say mean things to me, and it's a reasonable reaction—"

She cut him off. "Chandler, stop. What is it?"

He stared at her a little nervously but couldn't bring himself to say anything. Her eyebrows rose, intrigued and excited, eagerly waiting to hear the words he was struggling with.

"Look, I understand it's your brother's wedding, and it's a big deal. I mean, I don't have a sibling or been to a wedding in a long time, but I understand it's important. I just wish I could keep talking to you. I feel we have some kind of connection, right? Please tell me I'm not imagining it?"

"You're not. I feel it too," Monica answered in a soft tone.

"Good." He sighed with relief. "Great. We're both in London today. What do you say we check out the city together?"

She smiled at the thought but looked unsure. "What would we do?"

"We could do all the tourist things you planned, and all your bridesmaid, sister of the groom obligations." It was all Chandler could come up with to convince her. She still seemed undecided but didn't respond.

"Ok, hear me out. Say, hypothetically, worst case scenario, alright? Jump ahead in the future, we're 40, Neither of us is married, you have your Manhattan, charming, three-star restaurant. But the other part of the plan is missing. Well, that's me, I could be  _the guy_  of your plan. I'd happily stay at home, in the suburbs, taking care of the kids, and you can thrive in Manhattan, even open another restaurant in Paris, without having to worry about the logistics. So our day together could be like a clinical trial, you know? At the end of the day, we could decide on a place, and a time, to meet when we're 40 and I would keep my end of the deal."

"That is crazy!"

"Come on, what are the odds that you'll be single when you're 40? Very, very small. And the odds of me being deemed husband and father material by the end of the day? Even slimmer. You're hardly taking any risks here," he said with begging eyes.

She scrunched up her face at his last sentence.

"I see, you're thinking I could be a psychopath or a murderer, but I can guarantee you I'm not, I swear. And if I was, you can just … throw me into the Thames. The drunk guys earlier looked terrified of you, I think you can beat me up pretty easily. At worst, you can outrun me any moment, because I have the lung capacity of a two year-old."

She grinned at him, pondering the situation for a moment, and then stood up.

"I'm not sure I get all of what you're saying but ok. I'll spend the day with you, Chandler."

"Oh good, thanks." He beamed with delight.

"Are you always like that?"

"No, of course not. I'm a very serious, confident man" said Chandler in a low rough voice, making Monica laugh.

"I have a tendency to keep talking until someone stops me."

"I figured. You didn't lie, it's very entertaining," she said around a laugh.

"What can I say, I love it when people find joy and delight in my public displays of social awkwardness." Chandler feigned to be hurt and offended.

"Hey, you're the one who came up with this deal!"

Chandler started walking towards the exit doors, handling the bags and not fully aware Monica was behind him. Before exiting the train, she hesitated slightly, pausing at the top of the stairs.

She took her time to look at him, her heart was beating faster, the idea of spending the day with a stranger really sinking in now. Not only this was so unlike her, it wasn't reasonable by anyone's standards. Then, she felt a tinge at the prospect of being alone, isolated, thrown to the lions at Ross's wedding. She looked at this man. This tall, boyish-looking man, somewhat of a poseur with his khaki pants, his white jacket, and a blue collar shirt over a white undershirt. She couldn't tell if he was trying too hard to look cool, or he just didn't care.

As he turned to her, waiting, he smiled at her with his lopsided grin, and that was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Chandler and Monica got out of Waterloo Station and started walking alongside each other, a heavy silence settling over them, Monica was observing her surroundings, trying to locate herself, she eventually looked back at Chandler; he had his hands in his pockets and was following the direction of her gaze. They fully realized they were now committed to one another in some strange way.

"This feels a little awkward," finally said Chandler, who could barely stand the uneasy tension anymore.

"A little yes, but it doesn't have to be," she replied.

"But it's ok, right?"

"Yes, let's just head somewhere." She smiled and he nodded.

"Where do you wanna start?" he asked after a few steps.

"Well, why don't we drop off our bags first? The hotel we're staying at is pretty close, I can go check on my parents and my brother, leave our bags and we're good to go?"

Chandler was suddenly thrown off by the mention of her family, his mouth almost too dry to speak.

"You won't have to meet them, Chandler," she said, rubbing his arm to reassure him, her eyes focusing on his. All he could do was glance at her hand on his arm and nod.

"Not that I don't want to meet them or anything, it's just, you know, it would be weird to explain  _this_  and they'd find me creepy and your brother might want to kill me—"

"It's fine, really."

"Good. I'll shut up now and stop making this more awkward than it is."

Monica stopped suddenly and pulled out multiples maps and travel guides.

"What's all that?" asked Chandler.

"Oh, I planned my day so I can check all the must-see places." She opened one of the maps. "Here's the most effective itinerary with the most convenient mode of transportation between each site, to check them out in the shortest time. The red spots are the places I can't miss, the orange ones are bonus sights, and the yellow spots will depend on whether I'm running late." Her eyes were sparkling, there was something in her enthusiasm that Chandler found completely irresistible.

"Oh my God." He chuckled.

"What's wrong?" Monica asked, her eyes narrowing.

"This is what you called sightseeing? You're a very … prepared kind of tourist."

"Of course. I only have a couple of hours, and this could be the only time I set foot in this country, I can't miss out," she replied in the most serious and earnest way, Chandler shook his head, smiling.

"How about we go to the hotel, and I'll take you where you will truly experience London in a way that you will actually remember it and not like you're taking part in an Olympic sport." Chandler deadpanned.

"I'm sorry, are you mocking my plan?"

"No, the plan is perfect, the plan is flawless, the plan is better than Hans Gruber's plan," Chandler said sarcastically, to which Monica smirked, "Just saying, if at the end of the day, I want to stand a chance to be your husband and father at forty, I need to work with a more flexible plan."

"Fine, Mr. Flexible Plan. But I can't miss the Tower of London, or I  _will_  throw you into the Thames."

"I'm genuinely terrified of you so yes, we will see it." He grinned.

They kept walking in the direction of the hotel, as they made their way through shoppers, groups of ambling tourists and rushing office workers on York Road.

"I have to ask this, are you one of those British Royalty crazies?"

Monica averted her eyes uncertainly.

"Oh my God, you totally are. That's hilarious," said Chandler, laughing uncontrollably.

"It's not like that!" She scolded, whacking him with her maps.

" _Do you love the Queen? Oh yeah, you want some tea and crumpets? No? Okay then_." Chandler started taunting her in a British accent.

"I'm not a crazy royal.. whatever!"

" _So you don't like tea and crumpets?_ "

"I do, I like tea. But that's not—"

" _Okay then!_ "

"Ugh, I hate you."

" _That's not a very proper way to address a gentleman, young lady_."

"Ok, Ringo, would you stop with the British accent, it's weird." She playfully punched his chest again.

"Ouch. So violent!" Chandler dropped the accent, feigning hurt. He couldn't resist teasing her, making her nose scrunch up and her eyes roll at him made him happier than he liked to admit.

"See, I can actually beat you up, so stop. Please?"

"Okay, fine." He smiled with a smug little grin, and her features softened.

As they were about to cross a road, Monica looked at her left. Chandler stopped her.

"Wait no, you have look at your right here before crossing. You know, the whole driving on the wrong side thing."

"Right," she said with a shy smile.

A few moments later, they were facing the London County Hall Building, Monica excitedly reading up on all the information in her guides, and observing the buildings trying to identify each monument. Chandler was only looking at her. They were about to cross another time to get to the Marriott Hotel, and once again, Monica looked at her left and took a step, only this time Chandler just grabbed her arms to stop her.

"You have health insurance, right?" He joked.

"Uh-huh." She breathed, struggling to form a word as she felt her face flush.

They crossed the street, turned to their right, and arrived at the entry of the Marriott Hotel. Immediately, a concierge came up to them and offered to take their luggage to Monica's assigned room. Chandler took a seat in the lobby, waiting for her. Feeling nervous, he was wondering whether he would meet her family and praying he wouldn't. Things were going too well and the thought of embarrassing himself in front of her parents made him sweat.

A few moments later, Monica came back, wearing a short-sleeved, green-beige floral dress.

"You changed?" he asked.

"Yeah, I find travel clothes kinda gross."

He shifted his head as if pointing out the irony.

"Travel clothes  _on me_ , it's just my thing." She was afraid she made him feel self-conscious or weirded him out with her obsessive habits. "But you can freshen up in my room if you want to?" she added.

He declined with a polite smile, trying not to stare too long. The dress was showing off her freckled shoulders, she still looked as fresh as a rose on a morning spring, Chandler thought. She was standing a few feet away from him, but in her unattainable beauty, she might as well have been a magazine model, and he felt like the plainest looking guy in the world at that moment.

She looked at him to bring him out of his thoughts.

"Right, let's start with the Tower, and we'll get you out of the tourist traps after," Chandler said, standing up to join her towards the exit.

Despite Monica's complaints, Chandler convinced her to take a cab. During the short drive, they exchanged furtive subtle glances at each other but usually not when the other was looking, pretending instead to check out the city through the window in a comfortable silence.

They entered the Tower of London through Tower Hill, Monica taking them in the direction of the Crown Jewels, walking alongside each other, she was looking up at the historic buildings, fascinated and practically entranced. "Look at this — it's so beautiful. Can you imagine all the things that happened here? So much history."

"I don't know, all this history can be really oppressive. Makes you feel rather insignificant, like you are just a little speck in the universe." Chandler shrugged.

"Is that why you live in L.A.? Because it's so  _neutral_?" she said, in a mocking tone, cocking her head to the side,

"No, I live in L.A. because it's so ugly, of course. And the traffic jams are a treat," ironized Chandler to which Monica chuckled. "It's kind of a blank canvas, it's an ideal city if you want to reset your life," he added, and she nodded understandably with a tight-lipped smile.

They entered the Jewel House, Monica amazed by the royal regalia collection of cut-diamonds, gemstones, and crowns; Chandler was following her, equally delighted by the unique collection and by her sight. He kept quiet, recognizing how important this obviously was to her. They were both impressed by the heavy steel vaults on the entry doors. "This is what it must feel like being in a Swiss bank." Chandler joked, whispering to Monica's ear, and they both smiled.

Back outside, they sat on a bench overlooking the Tower Bridge.

"Can you imagine what it like was for the prisoners here— Oh, look at that raven!" Monica exclaimed, looking like the happiest person on earth as a bird landed on the ground near them. "I bet it's one of the six ravens that prevent the kingdom from falling!" she said proudly.

"Um, I think it's seven," said Chandler.

"What? It's six! Look, Chandler, the Royal history is kinda my thing, so I know I'm right about this."

"I'm glad it's your thing but really I think—"

She cut him off, "I guess we'll just have to find out, then?" Monica said, and as soon as she caught the sight of a Yeoman Warder, acting as a tourist guide, she turned back to Chandler. "Wanna bet on it?"

"W—Why?" he asked with a baffled look.

"Because I know I'm right!" she said, her eyes widening, and a grin plastered on her face. Chandler was still puzzled but equally amused by her childlike intensity.

"What would we bet on?" he asked. Suddenly, she took his hand and ran to the guide. She asked him about the ravens, and he politely informed them the correct number was six, and that there were seven ravens roaming free in the Tower currently.

"Yes, I was right! I win!" exclaimed Monica, clenching her fists.

"Congratulations. What's my punishment, am I getting thrown inside one of the Tower's cells?"

"I'll go easy on you, let me think. I need to find something good." Monica contemplated, drumming her fingers on her chin.

"Remind me to never let you be right again, you're taking way too much enjoyment out of this," he said, squinting his eyes.

Monica smirked at him, then her face lit up. "Oh I know. I can pick a cringe-worthy tourist thing to do for the next sight."

"Oh great. Just make me wear a Union Jack hat while you're at it."

"I know you're joking, but you're just giving me ideas", she said, waggling her eyebrows. "Oh I know, maybe I'll take a picture of you in one of those telephone booths," she added.

"No, please no," Chandler said in a sincere voice.

"I'll have mercy on you, only because you look cute when you beg. We'll take the double-decker bus, and sit at the top."

Chandler groaned, trying not to smile at the thought that she finds him cute.

"Come on Chandler, the weather is beautiful, I can really soak in the city, and we'll get to talk."

He knew he couldn't resist her when she smiled at him with shiny eyes, looking bluer than ever.

"No pictures?" he asked.

"Fine, no pictures."

* * *

They were sitting at the back of an open top red London bus, but Chandler realized he wasn't upset at his predicament and gladly welcomed his punishment.

"Let's play a game," he suggested.

"Ok! But I have to warn you, I  _always_  win at any game," Monica said, rubbing her hands in anticipation.

"No, not that kind of game, there is no winner and no loser, just questions and answers to get to know each other better. We take turns and we have to answer honestly."

"Oh." Her smile faded. "That's not really a game," she said.

"Don't look so disappointed. It will be fun."

She stared at him for a split second and was endeared by his excitement. "Okay, you go."

He glanced up the sky, then focused on her. "Alright. Describe your first sexual feelings towards a guy. Or a girl. If it's a girl, please describe thoroughly," he said with a grin.

She rolled her eyes and slapped his knee.

"Ok, ok … Chip Matthews," she finally answered.

" _Chip_?" Chandler emphasized, his face scrunching up.

"Yes. He was this really cute, super popular boy in our high-school, he had a cool motorcycle that we called The Chipper, and he worked at the local movie theater where he'd sneak in girls and do … stuff," she said quietly, Chandler couldn't help but cringe.

"That easy, huh? Maybe I should have gotten a motorcycle in high school instead of trying to make girls laugh."

"Well, I had a secret crush on him, but of course, he was only interested in my best friend, who was hot and popular enough for him." She marked a pause, looking down. Chandler thought she was being falsely modest, he couldn't imagine a girl like her not being part of the popular girls and their cliques.

"I was excited for her but at the same time, I was daydreaming about getting  _a lipper from the chipper_ , I felt awful, and I never told my friend. Turns out, on prom night, he ditched her to go sleep with Amy Walsh," she concluded with a sigh.

"Oh. That's terrible. You both are better off without him if you want my opinion. Honestly, I can't picture a guy named  _Chip_  not ending up as some kind of loser."

"Sure. His karma is his weird name,  _Chandler._ " She joked, and he chuckled.

"By the way, I can sneak you in a movie theater anytime." He winked at her, with a crooked smile.

"Such a tempting offer." She returned his smile, "Ok, my turn. What's the most romantic thing that's ever happened to you?" she asked.

His face went blank, he averted his eyes.

"I'm gonna take a pass on that one. What do you—"

"Hey, wait, I didn't know you could take a pass!" She yawped, with an outraged look.

"Sure, you can take a pass, why not."

"After I've been going on and on about my embarrassing sexual attraction to my best friend's boyfriend?"

"It's not the same, I could tell you all about my first sexual feelings, no big deal. It's Jaclyn Smith in Charlie's Angels by the way." She grinned at his choice. "But romance? I know nothing about romance. And no, I don't think I have experienced that," he added.

"What about love? Have you been in love?" she asked, her eyes questioning him.

"No."

"That's it, that's your answer?" she said, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yes, what would be yours?"

"I would have made up a cheesy story or something." She giggled.

"See, it's uncomfortable. Love is like God, you can't see it or touch it, but the believer knows it exists when it happens to him. You just know when you feel it. I'm not sure if I have that kind of faith, I'm even scared I wouldn't recognize it if it happened to me. All I know is, I never experienced that pure, selfless, unconditional form of love ..." He trailed off in a quiet voice, looking away from her. Monica was captivated by the glimpse of vulnerability he was revealing, she noticed a strand of hair falling onto his forehead, and almost instinctively she moved her hand to move it, but eventually, Chandler passed his fingers through his hair. "You know what I mean?" He looked at her.

"Yes, I know what you mean," she said after swallowing, with a half-smile.

"I don't know why I thought this game would be fun."

* * *

For about an hour, Monica and Chandler walked around central London, from Big Ben to the Parliament Houses and Buckingham Palace. She insisted on taking pictures with a disposable camera, and he grinned at the way she meticulously chose her angles. They ended up walking in a small, surprisingly quiet street in Westminster. Chandler feeling tired, suggested they sat down on a bench.

"You didn't lie about your lung capacity." She teased him.

"You're not tired? Why don't you sit down?"

"You have to push through the pain, it's gut-check time."

Chandler chuckled and gulped down the last of his water bottle, spraying some on his face.

Monica, still standing up, looked up and froze. "Hey, do you hear that?" she said.

"No, but I can hear my heart thumping, I think it's trying to get away from my body." He held a hand on his chest, grimacing.

She shushed him with her hands. "No, listen!" She insisted, awe lightening up her face. "It's that song, I love that song."

Chandler examined the sound, music was coming from an adjacent Georgian building.

"It's Dean Martin, oh I love him." She exclaimed.

_Everybody finds somebody someplace_

_There's no telling where love may appear_

_Something in my heart keeps saying_

_My someplace is here_

"This song is one my favorites." She leaned to him, and Chandler felt his breath hitch. She extended a hand to him. "Come on, you can stand up."

"I don't dance."

"I'm not asking you to dance, just to stand up and  _I_  will dance." She raised her eyebrows, her hand still inviting him.

Chandler stood up, holding a distance between them. The song playing in the background, but clear and loud enough to make both of them a little nervous, the romantic melody and lyrics bringing out all their feelings on the surface; shyness, uncertainty, trepidation.

At first, she rested her hands on his shoulders, he felt all his body flush, and they both sensed the charged atmosphere.

"You remind me of Dean Martin you know," she said in a lower, softer voice.

"I do?" He couldn't help but respond in a whisper, swallowing hard. He closed the distance, putting his hands on her back.

"Yes. I watched a tape of one of his shows. He enjoys making people laugh as you do."

"Really?" He smiled at her. Her eyes were sparkling, holding his in an intense gaze.

"Yes. He jokes all the time between songs, but you can feel it's all an act. Once he starts singing, his tone and demeanor change completely." His smile widened. They were lightly swaying, rocking from side to side. He slid his hands on the top of her hips, bringing her closer to him, she could feel his heart beating fast against her chest. Chandler became aware of every single nerve end of his body, when Monica's head leaned closer and her mouth was inches from his ear, her breath tickling his neck.

"When he sings about love, it's like he's singing to me," she whispered, "his voice gets serious, he grins in that irresistible smile, and you feel like he means every word. He looks at you like you're the most special person in the world."

There was an implicit understanding between them that she wasn't talking about Dean Martin anymore. Finally, she rested her head on his shoulder, he melted into their embrace and held her tight. His head buried in her hair, he shut his eyes and lost himself in her smell for the duration of a song that felt like a lifetime worth of happiness and bliss.

_Everybody loves somebody sometime_

_And although my dreams were overdue_

_Your love made it all worth waiting_

_For someone like you_

The song stopped but they were still hugging and moving slowly. She looked up at him, smiling. Chandler no longer felt tired. He felt like seeing things clearly for the first time.

And now, if someone ever asked him what was the most romantic thing that's ever happened to him, he had an answer.


	4. Chapter 4

Chandler and Monica made their way out of Camden Town Station, the affluence of tourists progressively decreasing as they took the Northern Line of the London Underground, and side by side, they reached Camden High Street. Monica was surprised and delighted by the unexpected sight. The street was buzzing under the hot summer rays of the afternoon, highlighting the eccentricity of the colorfully painted houses, traditional English architecture blending with artsy peculiar facades.

"This is my favorite place in London," Chandler said.

"It doesn't feel very .. London-y," she replied, still astonished by the uncommon aesthetics and ambiance of their surroundings.

"Precisely."

It made her wonder how many times he was there. Clearly, it wasn't a spot for the casual tourist. "How many times have you been to London before?" she asked.

"A couple of times.  _Enough_  times. I came here as a kid with my parents, they kept fighting during the entirety of the trip. They had this big blow up right in front of Big Ben, then divulged the most intimate details of their sex lives just outside Buckingham Palace, and finally exchanged very inappropriate insults when we arrived at Trafalgar Square; so for the rest of the trip, my mom just went into her business meetings all week, and my dad paid a visit to every club in Soho. I stayed in the hotel room watching TV."

Monica was still perplexed by the halfhearted way he would drop these bits about his childhood. "How old were you?"

He marked a pause to remember. "I was 8, almost 9."

"God, that's—" She couldn't find the right words but he cut her off quickly.

"Yeah. I guess, in retrospect, I shouldn't have been surprised they divorced a couple of months later. That's not your regular holiday family trip, right?" he said with a slightly forced smile. She put her hand on his arm and tightened it. It was more than a consolation gesture.

As they walked the bridge over Regent's Canal, they made their way through the main market, with stalls on either side selling vintage clothes and crafts, books, bootleg albums, and various cassettes. Sellers and customers were indistinguishable, wearing an array of unorthodox outfits. Most of them, young men in their teens and early twenties, were in thick leather jackets, studded belts, and rock band t-shirts. Monica looked at Chandler and couldn't help but wince at the dichotomy of two young Americans, herself in a prissy dress, and Chandler in smart pants and shirt, walking past all kinds of punks, rude boys, rastas, and goths. Music was playing all around, though it wasn't really music, more like a mix of all sorts, from alternative rock to blues and jazz, and street performers, adding to market traders yelling about their wares; combining together to form a joyous cacophonic background sound. The atmosphere was exhilarating to her, she felt silly thinking there was an air of danger hanging, but to her surprise, she didn't feel scared, most people were offering friendly smiles, or were simply indifferent.

Chandler noticed her uncertain looks. "You can do anything you want in Camden", he whispered in her ear to make sure she heard him, and she shot him a puzzled look. "It's a song, you have nothing to worry about here," he added, and she nodded, allowing herself to relax.

They arrived in a quieter part where the noise subsided. Monica was longing to know more about the strange childhood memories Chandler kept bringing up.

"Did you want them to stay together? I mean, your parents."

"No. But I don't know, I guess the reason they got married in the first place was that they had me. I mean, my dad turned out to be gay," he answered nonchalantly.

"Oh," quietly exclaimed Monica, she regretted asking what turned out to be almost an indelicate question.

"Yeah. I know they didn't belong together and on some level, they probably always knew it. It's just … There are ways these things should go down. The divorce was rough on me, I guess," said Chandler, looking straight ahead with hands in his pocket.

"My parents seem so happy together, their marriage is pretty much unwavering. I think if they separated, some many illusions would have been shattered for me."

"Well, divorce ruined many things for me. Marriage, Thanksgiving, family vacations—" He was enumerating them on his fingers when she cut him off.

"You hate Thanksgiving? It's the best holiday. How—"

"Not if your parents decide to announce their divorce just after the pumpkin pie is served, and your mom reveals to you that your dad was sleeping with the houseboy. So you just end up throwing up that merry food all night long."

This time, she could feel growing tension in his voice.

"Ok, you could have told me that when I asked why you didn't want to get married."

"I didn't want to freak you out. You're freaked out now, aren't you?"

"It's a little … unsettling, but you shouldn't blame yourself for their issues."

"You sound just like my childhood psychiatrist.  _Chandler, honey, it's not your fault if your parents hate each other's guts_ " he said, imitating the voice of an older woman. "As if that was supposed to make me feel better," he added.

"My childhood psychiatrist would tell me that overeating mint treasure cookies wouldn't replace the affection of my parents.  _Monica, sweetie, you have to learn to control yourself. Remember, they're just food, they're not love._ " It was her turn to mimic the voice of an older man.

"Shrinks are the worst," he concluded, grinning at her impression.

Arriving at the Camden Lock Market, Chandler directed her to a street full of food stalls. He was thrilled and proud to notice her senses almost overwhelmed by the aromas and smells of food from all over the world that she was trying to decipher.

"This is the best food market in all of London, I think you'll really enjoy this as a Chef."

"Assistant Chef," she corrected.

"I think you'll really enjoy this ... as a future Chef." He winked at her, and she smiled appreciatively.

He ordered mac and cheese hot-dogs with two beers, and lead her closer to the canal, sitting on the docks. He gave her the hot-dog, and then pointed to the beer. "And there it is, Boddingtons, the best ale in all of Her Majesty's Kingdom!"

She thanked him then frowned, pointing to the food. "Are you sure this is clean and safe?"

"Yes, it's clean. It's authentic, like your future restaurant, remember. You like authentic."

Still unconvinced, she inspected the inside of the hot-dog, slightly grimacing. "Are you trying to ruin all the classiness and sophistication I used to associate with England?"

He laughed, then clinked his beer with hers. "Come on, just taste it, it's delicious."

She took a bite, then a sip from her beer, as he waited expectantly for her verdict.

"It's not bad," she said, and he clenched his fist in celebration.

He fixed her for a moment as she was eating, her gaze lost on the canal, intently listening to the sound of birds lapping the water on the surface.

"So let me ask you this, I know our game earlier didn't turn out well, but it's been itching me," he finally asked, with a hesitant look on his face.

"Go on."

"How come you're not dating anyone? You didn't find a French guy with a baguette in Paris walking on the  _Rue de la_ _Blehblehbloo_?", he mumbled and she chuckled.

"Are you asking what's wrong with me? What terrible secret I'm hiding that explains why I'm single?"

"No, I'm not implying you're a freak … Although if you are, you're doing a bang up job hiding it," he joked with a lopsided grin and she smirked in response. "I'm in no place to judge, I've been single for so long, if a girl agrees to go on a date with me, she gets a free dinner of her choice, with a return or exchange policy, okay? Plus, I just told you about my family, you know my damage runs deep." Chandler looked at her intensely, then proceeded in a lower, serious voice, "I'm just curious because I think … you should have a boyfriend."

A smile graced her features then she sighed. "Turns out, men are not great at the commitment thing, or rather, I happen to only attract the ones with severe emotional problems."

"On behalf of men with severe emotional problems, I apologize."

"I mean, is it too much to not want to date a child? Are emotionally well-adjusted men an extinct species?" she said in an exasperated tone.

"If I knew men like that, I would introduce you to them, but I don't."

"At least, you're aware of it. Most of the guys I meet aren't even slightly self-aware."

"I am aware of it, but here's the thing. I knew early on that I was all messed up, but what am I supposed to do with that? I went to an all-male high school, then to college, and I wasn't required to be an adjusted adult over there. I graduated from college and then ... boom! I woke up one day, suddenly realizing I had no idea how to be in an adult relationship. It still doesn't help me much to be aware. How do I fix myself? How do I catch up on all the emotional development stages that I missed? Or am I destined to play catch-up forever? It's all so—" he trailed off, a tinge of helplessness and despair in his voice, reflected in a nervous laugh.

It made her heart ache a little, she stayed silent as he was looking down at his beer, then offered her hand to him. "Let's walk," she said, and he helped her get up.

After a couple of steps alongside the canal, he appeared to be in a better mood as he smiled at her, soaking up the brilliant sunlight. His demeanor was more assured, and only now did Monica notice his build. Although he was tall, he wasn't lanky but rather quite bulked up, and the blue of his eyes under the light felt more translucent and piercing than ever. She was almost in trance studying him so closely, and as she realized she was checking him out blatantly, she shook her head and cleared her throat.

"So you're saying you've never been in an adult relationship, ever?" she asked him, to distract herself from the feeling of her face blushing and her skin warming up.

He frowned at her. "No."

"Not even like a fling in college?"

"I didn't date much in college, I was catching up on high school. First kiss, first second base … First time," he answered in a self-deprecating tone.

"Maybe you just haven't met the right person yet," she said reassuringly.

"Even if I do, who would seriously date an emotionally stunted guy? You said it yourself, you don't want to be a relationship tutor. You wouldn't have dated me in college."

She smiled shyly at the image.

"I didn't date much in college either."

"I find that very hard to believe." Chandler raised his eyebrows.

"I was catching up on high school too. First kiss and … all that stuff."

"Again, that is … Have you seen  _you_?" he exclaimed in bewilderment.

Monica felt her cheeks reddening and the corners of her mouth quirking up. "I'll take that as a compliment I guess, but yeah, I told you, I wasn't exactly  _very_  popular in high school. In college, I was just enjoying the things everybody already did in high school," she said casually.

He narrowed his eyes. "You know, you keep saying you weren't popular in high school and I'm intrigued. I can guarantee you would have been  _very_  popular in my school."

She laughed and gently slapped his chest. "Trust me, I wouldn't be, even amongst a bunch of horny teenagers."

He stopped suddenly with a hand in front of her. "Okay, what is it? W—Why? The suspense is killing me."

"Well, I was kinda … heavy, back then— Ok, I was fat."

"Oh." He kicked himself for his unintentional pitying tone. He couldn't quite picture her with more weight, she looked so tiny to him.

"You don't have to feel uncomfortable, it's fine. Whatever. I lost weight after high school, it wasn't exactly my favorite time."

"We have that in common then."

"Yes, apparently I wouldn't have dated you in college, and you wouldn't have dated me in high school," she said with a smirk.

"I never said that, though."

"Your 'oh' was pretty telling."

"Ok maybe I wouldn't have, but only because, back then I was an idiot with an awful haircut, and my favorite band was Wham!"

She laughed in good nature, amused by his justifications. "Thankfully your music taste is so much better now."

He nodded, beaming at her.

* * *

"What kind of relationships were you in, if any at all?" she asked as Chandler caught sight of the London Waterbus on their way, he looked at the timetable for trips between Camden Lock and Little Venice, before turning again to her.

"Meaningless ones. Either I don't feel a spark and break up with them after one date over some superficial flaw, or I do something stupid and they run away because I freak them out."

"That doesn't sound great."

"I don't know, I just don't feel like I'm part of their lives, or they're part of mine. Dating for me feels like being on vacation in a foreign place, like we're just tourists in each other's lives, and we'll forget about each other as soon as we part ways."

"And from what I gathered, you hate tourists," she teased.

He smiled then took her hand and sped up to catch one of the boats before it left. "Shall we? We'd get back to London and it's worth the ride," Chandler suggested.

She nodded and stepped into the waterbus where they sat at the back, there were only a few people up front as the boat started cruising down the leafy waterways in a leisurely pace, through mansions, white stuccoed villas, and tree-lined streets.

"I get it. I guess when you're with someone you want to feel swept away, but is it too much if I want both that whirlwind feeling and the trust and security in a relationship? Have both passion and companionship? Not have to doubt every word, overthink every touch … Maybe I'm unrealistic," Monica said, lowering her eyes from him.

He shifted his head to meet them. "No, you're not."

"I am. People keep telling me I'm too picky and maybe they're right. I do realize not everyone has such standards for others and for themselves. The funny thing is, I did it, I lowered my expectations and guess what, I was with this guy for some time. He wasn't really attractive or smart, or sweet, he was awful in bed— I mean, he'd scream  _'I win, I win, I win!'_  when he finished and I can tell you, we went out for two months and I  _never_  got to win," she paused as Chandler couldn't contain a laugh. "Anyway, I kept thinking maybe I'm too harsh and picky, so I stayed with him. Then, one day, we're having dinner at my place, suddenly he says that he wants more and proceeds to break up with me."

"Ouch." Chandler winced.

"I was so mad that I kinda became obsessed with him, you know? I was convinced that he should be thrilled to date  _me_. It's a little pretentious I know, but that's how I felt. How did I end up being obsessed with someone I didn't even like?"

"Huh. I guess settling is off the table for you. Too bad for me." He grinned, making her smile.

"I'm resigned to the fact, either the perfect guy will have to find me, or I'll just end up alone, just give my mother the satisfaction of being right."

"You know what, that's ... I'm sure your mother doesn't think so."

"Oh but she does. You would understand if you met her."

"Maybe she's harsh with you because she just wants the very best for you. I hear that's a thing parents do?" Chandler said, unsure of his words.

"I know she doesn't hate me, and maybe it even comes from a place of love … But, still, she doesn't  _like_  me, you know. Does your mother like you?"

"She likes embarrassing me, does that count?" he answered with a big, goofy smile she couldn't help but return. Then, suddenly he noticed her smile fading, her eyes turning melancholic and almost solemn.

"I'm trying to deal with that. I know that a big part of becoming an adult is when you stop blaming your parents for all your problems," Monica said earnestly.

"Ooh, I don't think I'll ever get there."

"Me neither."

They both smiled at each other for a moment, before looking at the scenery of the canal. Chandler scanned the people in the boat, then looked at her.

"We might be the only ones here who aren't a married couple on their honeymoon," he remarked with sparkling eyes.

Monica moved her gaze to take a look herself at the boat's occupants.

"I can see why. It's beautiful and very romantic," she responded, in a dreamy voice.

"You know why couples go to these beautiful, romantic places on their honeymoons?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Enlighten me, please."

"Because it's so beautiful, you can't fight in places like that. You're too busy looking at all this beauty, and it distracts you from your marriage-bickering instincts," Chandler said matter of factly.

She sighed and shook her head. "So you're saying, if you go on a honeymoon to, say, New Jersey, newlyweds would fight all the time."

"Yes!" he exclaimed, "And you'd get a really good preview of what your marriage is going to be like."

"Because that's the  _whole point_  of honeymoons," she ironized, her whole face scrunching up.

"It should be!"

She laughed in disbelief. "You parents really did a number on you."

"And your parents must be really happy together. Let me guess, they also made you believe in eternal love or worse, love at first sigh," he said nonchalantly, scrutinizing her as she darted her eyes. "Oh you do, don't you?"

"I'm not saying everybody gets to experience it, but it can hap—"

His burst of laughter interrupted her. "Ok, maybe not love, but lust, attraction, a chemical thing or something, there are studies to prove it."

"Oh yeah, where did you read that?"

"Some ... paper," she answered hesitantly. He tilted his head, lifting a suspicious eyebrow.

"Ok, a magazine," she added. Chandler started grinning, feeling she was about to crack.

"Fine, it was a Cosmo. Happy?" she confessed.

"There you go," he deadpanned triumphantly.

"It still could be true!"

"What else did it say? The whole soulmates thing I guess?  _'Take this quiz to know if you already passed by your one true love on the street!'_ "

" _No_ —No." Monica glared at him. "In fact, it was a scientist saying things like, how body language, like someone's quirks, can make you feel more attracted to them, or ... Oh, there is that one thing that stuck with me. When two people are in love, and look into each other's eyes for about 3 minutes, it gets their heart rates in sync with each other," she explained with an awed expression. He smiled mischievously.

"Look I know it's not always true. I'm not stupid," she added. "Not anymore, at least. I don't blindly fall for guys. I've been out with guys who make a great first impression, what people consider good guys, yet in specific situations, they flip out and you get to see a whole different side to them. Now, I constantly wait for the other shoe to drop when I'm dating. It's emotionally exhausting. Believe me, I'm aware that most of the time, dating or love or whatever, is pretty unspecial, unremarkable or downright cynical. I'm not asking for a Disney fairytale, just a nice, enjoyable time with someone who can … make my heart rate synchronize with his for a moment or something. I want to feel that someday. I don't feel like it's too much to ask."

"You're right." Chandler's tone shifted, his voice gentle and soft.

"I'm right? You don't have any reality check or sarcastic comment to add?" she observed.

"No. I'd like that too."

"Really?" she examined him suspiciously.

"Yeah," he almost whispered as he got closer. "I felt it earlier even. When we were dancing, or when you were dancing and I was standing, it was like time stopped."

Her breath hitched, startled by his admission.

"It felt really, really nice," he added, his eyes never leaving hers. He got closer and closer and she felt her skin shiver and her heart beat faster."The truth is, I really wish I kissed you then. It was the perfect moment for a first kiss." His smile faded. "Now I feel like I blew it." He looked away from her, sadness and bitterness clouding his features.

She stayed silent, pondering his words, they took her by surprise and cut deep into her. The rush of affection she felt for him was too overwhelming to resist. It was unlike anything she'd known before, sensations she never thought she was capable of feeling. She realized he might need encouragement, something or someone held him back before, she speculated, but it didn't really matter now.

She put her hand on his cheek, and he turned again to look at her. "Monica," he breathed, questioning her intent by calling her name, silently imploring her not to make it any harder on him.

"You know what else I read?" she rhetorically asked as their foreheads touched, their noses almost rubbing. Chandler closed his eyes expectantly, he could smell her hair and her scent, and when he opened them again, he caught her gaze dropping to his lips.

"I read that the perfect moment for a first kiss doesn't have to be perfect … What matters is the magic in the moment surrounding the kiss. I don't know if it makes sense, but personally, I can still feel the magic from the dance ... Can you?"

Monica smiled shyly. He reached to grasp her hand on his cheek, and moved them both to land on hers.

"I‒I do. Is that my clue… that now … I can—" And before he could finish, she leaned slowly and tentatively to brush his lips with hers, he kissed her back with his hand still caressing her cheek, the other sinking in the softness of her hair. She came up for air with her arms around his neck, not wishing to break contact and simply beaming at him but he had a look of complete seriousness on his face. Chandler kissed her again, he was just as tender but she felt a change in him, there was a sense of urgency about the kiss now as he pressed his body against hers and she could hear his heart pounding mercilessly, maybe it was hers or the both of them, in sync. That was her last coherent thought. At that moment, she felt oblivious to everything, waves of pleasures overtaking her in a kiss that spoke a million things words couldn't.

Finally, he pulled his mouth from hers, then held her tightly in a hug, the very same way he held her after they danced. She didn't dare to move, relaxing into their embrace. When she opened her eyes again, she could see the gardens and the parks, some cyclists and walkers on the towpaths of the canal, her smile faded as if she just emerged from water or from an out-of-body experience, and it dawned on her what that kiss really meant.

It meant there was no way back, it meant that the greatest moment of her life so far was happening now, possibly at the worst time imaginable, ultimately it meant she was in trouble.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey, what about your dress?"

Monica looked down at her outfit. "What about my dress?"

"The one you had to pick up?"

In the late afternoon, they had stayed silent during most of the tube ride that took them from Piccadilly Station to Covent Garden. Monica rested her head on Chandler's shoulder, he let himself fall back against the window and never felt more at peace in his life. The memory of the kiss was constantly replaying in his mind, making him blissfully smile. He didn't care if it made him look like an idiot. It wouldn't be the first the first time he was called that, but right now, he was a  _happy_  idiot. She was snuggling against him and he could still feel the soft pressure of her lips against his, when she made the move he couldn't bring himself to make, in that moment of sweet uncertainty just before he kissed her back, feeling the warm brush of her breathe against his face—

An abrupt stop from the train interrupted his thoughts, making him pay attention to their surroundings and the people around them. He was never a practitioner of public displays of affection before but he didn't mind. When her hand reached for his and she squeezed his fingers, his heart melted. This was couple behavior and he was fine with it. Perfectly fine, in fact, strangers were more than welcome to gush over him and his girl.  _His girl_. For now. That reminded him all this floating on a cloud of utter happiness was just smoke and mirrors, a rush of endorphins with an expiration date. It wasn't the appropriate time to catch feelings, to fall for someone. He had to protect himself even if all he wanted was to lose himself.

When the topic of the dress popped into his brain, there was no better way to ground him back to reality.

"Oh, my bridesmaid dress? It's in my hotel room," she responded lightly.

Her casual tone confused him. "Was is it really in your perfect itinerary to pick it up, or was it just an excuse to avoid creeps like me trying to convince you to spend the day with them?" He couldn't control the playful yet somewhat accusatory tone of his question.

She picked up on it and gave him a wide-eyed stare. "You're a little paranoid. No, when I went to the hotel, my mother told me she picked it up for me."

He relaxed at her answer. "Oh," he said in a regretful tone, "that's nice of her".

"Eh, she probably did so to carefully examine it and tell me what's wrong with it all day. I'm so happy I escaped that."

Chandler arched an eyebrow. "Glad I could be of help."

Monica smiled, she tugged on his shirtsleeve and kissed him quickly on the lips. "I'm having a great time."

And that simple gesture of affection, coupled with her sincere tone, made Chandler feel the clouds lifting again and his heart starting to lighten.

"Me too."

* * *

They walked out of Covent Garden Station and took a right on James Street, a pedestrian historical street at the heart of London, filled with shops, cafés, and loft residences. They wandered with their hands intertwined, occasionally popping into gift shops along the way.

"So what would you be doing now if you weren't with me?" Chandler asked.

She met his eyes. "I was planning on visiting the city, but I guess it would've felt lonely."

"You could have picked up one of the drunk guys on the train."

Smiling at the slight tinge of teasing in his voice, she tapped a finger to her lips. "Come to think of it, one of them was kinda cute."

He narrowed his eyes. "So cute you had to change seats," he said, a tightness threading through his voice.

"Are you a little jealous?"

"Of course not." He took their joined hands to press a kiss to her knuckles and a grin tugged at her lips.

They arrived at the Covent Garden Piazza, the central square at the end of the street, surrounded by classical buildings. It was moderately crowded with people entertained by the many street performers. They passed buskers playing the violin, acrobats, and magicians.

"If I didn't get accept your offer, right now I would probably be sad and a little mad. I would busy myself pretending to arrange flowers or the table setting at the wedding."

She sighed, and for a moment, Chandler thought she sounded pained.

"Why would you be mad?"

"Because I would hear my parents sing my brother's praises all day, which I'm used to, but he would so obviously enjoy it and still pretending he doesn't when I ask him."

She looked into his eyes, before clearing her throat. "He loves the attention and he doesn't want to admit it. He does that constantly. He rapped at my bat mitzvah just to announce he made it into a state-level science fair," she added, shaking her head. "And he was predictably awful at it, so everybody left, my parents ended up consoling him! He drives me crazy."

He smiled at her animated tone, noting she would talk faster anytime she got upset.

"Because he steals the spotlight from you?"

"Always. I get a great job, he gets engaged. I lose weight, he gets a girlfriend. It's always about him."

"Hmm. Seems to me you crave attention just as much as him though," said Chandler as he looked up at her, noticing what looked to him like the biggest side-eye glare in the world.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying, it looks like you want just as much attention as him, the difference is he's getting it and you're not. But that's not exactly his fault, is it?"

"I guess it's not …" she trailed off, lowering her voice and her eyes before turning again to him. "But .. Wait a minute! That's not fair! So I like a little attention, sue me, but only because I'm entitled to it! We're both their kids, shouldn't we both get attention?"

He didn't expect such an intense reaction, he opened his mouth but no words came out.

"And you know what? Who are you to make me feel bad about … feeling bad!" she added.

"Ok, calm down—"

"And weren't you craving my attention, Mr. I Missed My Chance To Kiss You?" she breathed, trying her best to keep her tone even.

"Alright… I'm sorry, I don't want you to feel bad about feeling bad, I was just trying to help you  _not_  feel mad at your brother." Chandler raised his hand to her shoulder and she relaxed at his touch. "Of course I try to help and we end up having a fight, typical," he added in a resigned tone.

"A fight?" she asked, tilting her face up at him.

"Yes. And hey! Our very first fight, we lasted a couple of hours, that's cause for celebration!"

She cackled at his enthusiasm. "What are you talking about, we had plenty of fights already. When you were babbling about marriage being a pressure cooker, when you thought me having a successful life was unrealistic, when—"

"Ok, ok, ok!" he interrupted. "It's different, this is the first time you got really mad, the other times you thought I was cute, I'm hoping." She smiled at his puppy dog eyes, "but right there, you had the angriest look I've ever seen in my life."

She laughed at his feigned hurt, then leaned to kiss him on his cheek. "Poor little boy."

" _Mate, want to help out a lad?"_

They turned back at the sudden voice coming from one of the street performers they just passed. A dandy dressed man in his fifties who was holding a sandwich board sign.

"Excuse me?" Chandler asked.

"Read the sign, you can read, right? It says 'A conversation for a pound', you pay whatever you want and I talk to you about any subject you want."

Chandler and Monica looked at each other, confused.

"I can read that, yes."

"You two are Yanks? Blimey! Of course! You can pay me in dollars but I'm warning you, the pound is stronger, I'll have to overcharge you."

"We have pounds," answered Chandler, Monica gave him a reproachful look for encouraging him.

"Married I'm guessing?"

She stifled a laugh, which resulted in a snort, and Chandler smiled at her.

"Yes, we're two very married Americans. American tourists in fact." Monica rolled her eyes at his lie.

"What do you want to talk about?"

They stayed silent as the older man examined them. "What were you doing out there? I heard you fighting?"

"Yes, we were. I can't stand The Old Ball and Chain anymore," Chandler said, pointing to her.

"I hear ya," answered the man.

Monica darted her eyes between the two of them. "Old?" she gaped.

The street performer focused on her, looking her up and down as she narrowed her eyes defensively. "You haven't done too bad for yourself mate," he finally said.

Still grinning, Chandler looked at her with a smirk. "Thanks, but you know, the magic is gone, all we do is fight."

She lamented with a sigh.

"Alright, I'll tell you a story that might help with your little problem and you can pay me for that."

Monica lifted herself up on tiptoe to whisper in Chandler's ear. "Maybe this is where the expression 'penny for your thoughts' comes from," she said, making him smile.

The man looked up, and cleared his throat,

"Let me tell you something about marriage. You will have more fights, you will have bigger problems, and to face that, you need a lot of love, a lot of forgiveness. You didn't just promise to grow old together, you promised to change together. You're saying you can't stand her anymore, my mate said to me 'we grew apart', another one said 'I didn't change, she changed' when his wife was adamant 'he isn't the person I married'. We are humans, we change and evolve. You have to accept that today, you are different to the person you were when you looked into her eyes and said 'I do'. My wife and I were married for 30 years. She accepted me the way I was, she accepted me the way I changed ... She was my lover, then the mother of my children, and by the end, we were the best of friends. She loved me even when I wasn't an Adonis anymore. She loved me when I was trying to get sober. She loved me when I wasn't a young, exciting punk anymore and worked at a factory. And she changed too, and I never stopped loving her. Love is tolerance and independence. There is a lot to be said for comfort but also for struggle and change. There is no one way. Love survives with the full awareness of your ego and its selfish needs. When the pain of a fight is greatest, try to step back and allow the emotions to find acceptance. It is a wonderful gift."

Both their amusement dissipated to a look of seriousness, Chandler looked at Monica and was taken aback by how affected she looked, wearing her emotions on her sleeve.

"Where is she now?" she quietly asked, and in a flash, Chandler saw so much vulnerability and compassion it nearly knocked him to his knees.

The man's face, however, was unaltered. He looked back at her. "She died, five years ago. Bone cancer. She left on Good Friday. They always play the same hymn on the radio on Good Friday, and I will always remember them for the rest of my life.

_Love so amazing, so divine,_

_Demands my soul, my life, my all_."

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said as Chandler kept silent.

"Thank you. Being married to her was a privilege. You have to cherish all the moments that fly by unnoticed. She made me happy, and for that, all the fights were worth it," he added as he extended his hand.

They both looked for money and gave him some change.

"Good luck man," said Chandler, as they walked away.

"That was … wow," Monica said.

"Yes. Really uplifting stuff."

"I liked it."

"I don't even know if that was a sad or a happy story."

She nodded at him with a tight-lipped smile.

* * *

They sat at the outdoor table of an old pub, Chandler basking in the golden tinges of the low sun, as Monica went to the bathroom inside. While waiting, he took a cigarette out of the Marlboro pack in his jacket and lit it.

When Monica came back, she stopped in her steps at the sight of him, her mouth dropped open. She sat, and crossed her arms, looking at him with a serious face.

"Disgusting," she said in an exasperated tone.

"Me or the cigarette?" He flashed her a smirk and she rolled her eyes at him. "Oh come on,  _lighten up_!" He chuckled, delighted at his own bon mot.

"Very clever. You should be an ad man." She gave him a sly leer, and he kept grinning.

" _Shockingly_ , it turns out I have some flaws."

"Smoking is not a flaw, it's the most disgusting habit a person can have," she said, puffing out the cloud of smoke. "I don't understand the appeal at all."

"Non-smokers can't, by definition, understand the appeal. When I was younger, I was .. restless. I had to do something with my hands. In addition, I liked cowboys, cowboys were cool, and they always had a cigarette between their lips, so I stole one from my mother's purse. The cigarette became an extension of my hand. It made me feel complete. Happy."

"Happy as you wait for death."

"Very poetic, don't you think?"

"Aren't you scared you're gonna regret it?"

"I try not to think about it."

"Right, denial. Classic."

He put out the cigarette, leaned on the table, put his hand over hers and looked at her intently.

"Have you ever been addicted to something you know isn't good for you but you just can't help it?"

Lost in his blue eyes, she wondered one second if he was still talking about smoking.

She swallowed.

"I–I have," she replied, pulling herself together. "Food. But I stopped."

"Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that. I'd love to give you a more detailed, deeper answer, but basically, you make a decision and commit to it, every single day."

"Well, not all of us, mere mortals, have your willpower."

As a waiter approached them and they ordered coffee, they caught sight of a young woman, on the other side of the street, who was in a telephone booth crying. Monica fixed her while Chandler felt suddenly uncomfortable, wishing he could light another cigarette at that moment.

She kept her eyes on the woman, studying her. "Look at her. Poor thing, I wonder what it is. Maybe she lost someone or broke up. It's weird, it's like witnessing something that will inevitably happen to you. Getting bad news on the phone, the kind that will break you down," she said wistfully.

"I wouldn't cry in public though. Or in private, but at the very least, not in public," was his reply, she would have been surprised a couple of hours ago but not anymore.

"You don't cry in private?" she asked him.

"I'm not a crying kind of guy," he answered casually.

"That's what all men say, but I'm pretty sure they do cry."

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I don't. I mope, sure, I get sad, I drink in the morning, but I just don't cry easily."

"That sounds unhealthy," Monica paused, hesitating, but curiosity got the best out of her. She went straight to the point as quietly as she could, this was sensitive territory. "You can't remember one time you were so sad you cried? Like … when your parents got divorced?"

To her surprise, he stayed unfazed, "I didn't cry, I vomited my feelings. Although …" He trailed off, before looking up at her. "That might have been the last time I cried. It wasn't about the divorce really. The divorce pissed me off, I was angry we couldn't just be a normal family. I remember when my mom and I moved out after they finally settled the divorce. My dad was selling our house to move to Las Vegas. They wanted to change the wallpaper of my room for the new owners. I didn't want to. My room was my refuge when they fought. I begged them not to change it, and my mom said they wouldn't. Of course, the moment I turned my back, they took the wallpaper off, painted the walls all white. All of my scribblings, my silly drawings, my height marks, all gone. The latest remains of some semblance of happiness in my family."

Despite his nonchalant attitude about the subject, she could feel the pain etched in his eyes and his feather-thin voice. "That's so sad," she said, resting her hand on top of his. Chandler glanced away.

"The moment I moved out, my parents turned my room into a gym," Monica said in a suddenly cheerful tone, surprised at herself for attempting to break the tension or simply to make him feel better.

A smile tugged at his lips. "Ok, maybe you win this round." He gave her his distinctive lopsided grin that made her heart flutter.

They settled in their seats, sharing a moment of comfortable silence. Monica grabbed a hair tie and looped her dark strands into a knot on her head. A few pieces falling around her face framed her cheeks. She saw him staring at her, but she didn't look away and neither did he.

After a while, he averted his eyes, his face changing abruptly to stark seriousness. She followed his gaze. He was looking at the crying woman as she was walking.

Suddenly, Chandler burst out laughing as Monica had a disbelieving look on her face. The woman had entered a sex shop with neon signs and frosted-glass windows.

"That makes no sense," she exclaimed.

"It kinda does actually," responded Chandler, still giggling both from the shock and Monica's expression. "It's always about the sex."

"I'm sorry?"

"She was probably crying over a guy, maybe it was about their sex life. I bet that's why he broke up with her."

She blinked rapidly in disbelief. "That's outrageous, it doesn't constantly come down to sex. Typical guy thinking."

"Please, I live with an Italian looking actor, he's with a different girl every night and I know the reason why. "

"What's the reason?"

"Because of the sex."

Monica grimaced. "Oh come on, how can you know for sure?"

"We share a wall, I have ears and it's louder than HBO's late-night programming."

"Just because these girls make …  _HBO sounds_ ," she cringed. "You think he's great at sex and that explains whatever success he has with them?"

"You're a woman, don't tell me the HBO sounds don't matter!"

"Hard to say, you can fake them actually."

"Why would they all fake it?" he rhetorically asked.

She shook her head. "If he's so good, does he see these girls again? Wouldn't a girl never get enough of him?"

"He doesn't see them again because he ditches them."

"Chandler, how memorable do you think that kind of sex is? I bet he has a routine. Do you think that's what women are looking for?"

"I don't see them complaining."

"That's because that kind of sex just works for one night. For when you feel bad about yourself, and you just want someone, anyone to  _shake_  that feeling out of you. It feels great for a night, then you forget all about it. You don't want that."

"I–I don't." He sighed. "It's not just an ego thing though, I want to show a girl that I care, of course, but I also want to be the guy she has a good time with. I don't want to be the guy she can share a bed with because nothing is ever going to happen," he said, twiddling his thumbs and looking at his lap.

She leaned forward, running a hand through his hair."That's fair," she said, Chandler felt his breath catch for a brief second.

"The secret for that is pretty simple," she added, "just let her show you what she likes, and that will make her do the HBO noises. Take your time, learn about her body and discover every inch of her. Just pay attention and you won't even have to ask, she will show you. Sex is not just physical, it might be for a man, it's pretty straightforward for you guys, but for a woman, it can be a very mental, emotional thing. That's how you make it fun, for the both of you, and believe me, what you will have with her isn't just a good time, but a very special bond."

His eyes were transfixed on hers, there's something different in them. Something he hadn't seen before, but he didn't know what it was. He couldn't name it.

"Before you say anything, no, I haven't read that in a Cosmo."

A smile spread slowly across his face. Chandler paused for a moment. "It's weird that all we've talked about was commitment, childhood trauma, and feelings, but we waited so long to talk about sex."

"It is weird, yeah. Usually, it's easier to talk about sex than real emotions."

"I guess it shows the two are interconnected. I tried but I honestly can't compartmentalize sex from feelings."

"Really? You know, earlier I really thought you were the  _hit it and quit it_  kind of guy."

" _Hit and quit it_?" Chandler suppressed a laugh.

"You know what I mean."

"Well, I tried that and I failed. Once I dated a woman who had the most amazing, adventurous life, she was beautiful and exotic. The only problem was that she had a husband, and another boyfriend and she just wanted the sex."

"I thought that was every guy's fantasy."

"It's definitely my roommate's. I thought it was mine too, turns out it's not. It's cheesy, and I might not even be ready, but I do want to be somebody's special person."

"That's sweet." She smiled at him. "You're young, you'll get there."

Her tone was so earnest it hooked right into his chest.

"I don't feel very young."

* * *

They went inside the pub, moving to a table around the edge in the back. The place was deserted at this hour. Chandler approached the dartboard on the wall and retrieved one of the darts. He looked at Monica beside him. "How about a game?" he asked.

She shook her head with a grin, "I wouldn't want to hurt someone."

"It's easy, look."

Chandler positioned himself, focusing intensely then he finally threw the arrow. It went straight to the middle, close to the bull's eye.

She raised her eyebrows with an impressed look on her face. "You're good."

"I'm good at bar games." He got closer to her, handing her an arrow. "You're not the only one who enjoys winning. Are you scared you would lose for once?"

She narrowed her eyes, her jaw tightening. "Alright, don't say I didn't warn you."

Monica picked up the arrow from his hand and cracked her knuckles. She faced the dartboard, exhaling and flailing her arms. Chandler couldn't help but chuckle at her dramatic warm-up routine.

She threw the arrow but her shot was way off and barely made it to the dartboard.

Visibly upset, she turned to him. "If only there was a pool table in this bar, I would whip your butt."

"Now I really wish there was one," he joked.

He moved towards her and handed her another dart, then stood behind her. "Let me show you. I'm a good teacher," he said sporting a mischievous grin.

For a split second, she contemplated admitting defeat, but he kept getting closer until she could feel his breath on her neck.

There was less than a foot of space between them, endless and barely existing at the same time. Chandler brought his hands to her waist, steadying her stance, his chest was pressed against her back and he could feel the heat radiating off her body. His hand reached for her arm, gently gripping her elbow then going over her hand holding the dart, correcting its direction ever so slightly. He could feel her shaking and her cheek flaming. He then slid his right leg over hers to keep her right foot in the back and move her left foot forward, "The secret is to keep as still as possible," he whispered, lips to her ear, and at that moment, he could feel the fabric of his pants brushing her bare leg just over her dress. Chandler felt pleasure short-circuiting his brain, his system, his whole body. He looked at her, her eyes were closed, and when she let her head rest on his shoulder, her smell drifted into his nose. He breathed her in and right at that time, decided to let this day fold like a house of cards.

He took the dart from her hand, and leaned his face into her neck. "Turn around," he breathed and she turned. She wanted to say something, anything but the power of words was drained from her, her eyes locking with his. He lowered his mouth to hers, and pulled her in a kiss, dropping the dart.

She held on to his shirt, gripping it as tight as she could, a low moan escaping her throat into the kiss, and his body roared to life.

"Oh God," she murmured, pressing kisses to the corner of his mouth.

He looked at her, welcoming the raging hunger and lust in her pale gaze. "I know," he muttered before resuming the kiss, his hands sliding to her hips, hers already starting to unbutton his shirt as he pressed her against the wall.

He felt the ache between his legs pumping through his body and when his hand was about to slide under her dress, he heard the steps of a waiter with the sound of glasses clinking. He immediately backed out from her as the waiter passed them. She shifted her eyes away trying to fix her hair.

They went back to their seats, and Chandler closed his eyes, trying to regain control.

They ordered beers, distracting themselves from the unsatisfied craving and pent-up frustration. He couldn't look at her in the silence. He wondered if they would have gone all the way if they weren't interrupted. Of course, he knew they would have. Anytime he had looked into her eyes, any doubt or contemplation of protest dissolved right away.

He was lost in thoughts, every passing second bringing him a little closer back to reality. The reality of their situation, but mostly his reality. The one he escaped, a fading monochrome memory, contrasting with the one facing him now in technicolor.

For the first time since meeting her in the morning, he thought about his life, back in L.A., and all the reasons that brought him to London. Could he even call her a stranger now?

This wasn't fair and he couldn't do that to her.

He lowered his head and started scraping the label of his beer.

"Monica, there's something." he swallowed and looked at her. "I haven't been completely upfront with you."

Chandler took a breath, a fist of apprehension grabbing him. She knew it was bad news. Her heart dropped like a stone sinking down in the sea.


	6. Chapter 6

She held her breath, looking at him expectantly, but Chandler seemed motionless. All of a sudden, he excused himself and darted in the direction of the bathroom.

That was it. The shoe-dropping moment, causing a million thoughts to run in her head, envisioning the worst-case scenario; was he in a relationship, or even married? That wouldn't make sense. Did he lie about who he was or why he was in London?

Her questions were interrupted by his return. His hair and face were dampened, his eyes wide and glazed. She waited for his revelation. His mouth was half-open and he looked about to speak up, but no words came out.

"Does it have anything to do with the reason you were in Paris? For taking the train?" she finally asked.

He nodded, back to scratching the label of his beer.

"You don't have to tell me anything. We just met. You don't owe me explanations."

He looked up at her and panicked upon seeing the look of disappointment on her face. "No, it's true, I am in London to meet my mom. It was on my way. I have been traveling around Europe for the last two weeks. London was my final stop."

"Traveling? To do what?"

"Nothing really. I was looking out of train windows most of the time."

She nodded and quirked up her lips. "I thought that was for losers," she teased.

"Well, I never denied I wasn't one of them."

"Chandler," she said, a smile of gentle reproof on her face.

"I had to escape something … someone. A woman I broke up with 3 times in less than a year."

There it was. She felt a twinge of envy piercing through her chest unexpectedly. "I see."

He met her gaze and caught her blue eyes brimming with disillusionment. "Wait... It's not like that, just someone I always went back to when I was sure I'd end up alone, and I didn't want to do it again."

She gave him a questioning look, as if she could extract the truth from him with her big eyes. "Were you escaping that person, or escaping yourself?"

He shrugged. "I don't think I am escaping myself. I wish I could. I was escaping L.A. in the summer. I was escaping boredom. Failure. Loneliness."

"Right," she said, her voice unintentionally sarcastic. "What about your roommate? Doesn't he keep you company?" she asked, wiggling an eyebrow and flashing him a wide grin.

"What? No, no! Not in that way!"

She burst out laughing when he realized she was messing with him.

"Joey is shooting a movie."

"Oh  _Joey_." She crinkled her nose. "The Don Juan Italian actor. Anything I might recognize him from?"

"On second thought, I was escaping hot girls asking me about my friend's acting career."

She held her hands, her voice softening. "Calm down, I'm not into actors. They're too shallow."

"No, Joey is not like … well actually, he is."

They smiled at each other, marking a pause to return to their drinks

"So let me get this straight, you took an aimless summer trip around Europe just to get away from a girlfriend?"

" _Ex_ -girlfriend."

"Does she know that?"

"She must have. She thinks I got a promotion out of the country."

She gaped at him. "Oh, poor little thing."

"No no no. I know it makes me look bad, she's just a sweet girl from Queens who's somehow willing to take me back each time but you would understand if you met her,  _everyone_  understands when they meet her," he explained sheepishly.

"I guess I would, maybe,  _eventually_ , understand your frankly disturbing fear of confrontation but was it necessary to fly all the way to Europe?"

"I also got a big promotion at work," he casually said with a shrug, Monica narrowed her eyes at him.

"Congratulations?"

"No, no congratulations. It's the worst thing that has happened to me," he deadpanned, and she couldn't help a good-natured laugh. He didn't flinch.

"Oh, you're serious."

"If I take this job, with the money and the perks, I'll never quit."

"I really don't follow you. It can't be that bad?"

Chandler slumped against the back of his chair, defeated. "In a nutshell, my life is a mess. I hate my job, my love life is a disaster, and I believe we have substantially covered my emotional baggage."

She took his hand and linked their fingers together. "I'm sure it's not that bad, you can turn your life around if you want. What it is that you want to do in life? Instead of taking that promotion?"

"I just don't want a job I'd describe in any detail and literally have to fall asleep."

"What do you like to do? In your free time?"

"Not much," he said as she tilted her head at him and raised a brow. "I guess ... sometimes I like writing comics, and stuff," he blurted out, not entirely sure why he was confessing something he hardly even admitted to himself, but here, with those wide eyes staring into his, he couldn't help himself.

She instantly lit up. "You write? You're a writer?"

"I wouldn't call myself a  _writer_. If I'm a writer, he's trapped deep, deep down in the body of a data processor. It's an embarrassing secret."

"I won't tell anyone," she said with a timid half-smile.

"I just want to do something cool, something with words or jokes, I don't know if there's a job for that."

"I can see that."

"What?"

"The words thing. You're good with words. That whole spiel with the 40 years-old deal? Very convincing."

A smile spread slowly across his face. "I'll take note of that."

"You should do it. Be a writer."

He chuckled before clearing his throat. "It's funny, I'm sure you mean well, but it's like when people say that, or they say that I'm cute, I'm designed to think it's not true. That they're just being nice by saying shallow, polite compliments."

"You think I'm not being honest?"

"No, I'm not talking specifically, just .. in general. I know it's irrational, but it's how I feel. When someone says something bad about me, I believe that if it hurts me, if it validates my deepest fears and insecurities, it must be true."

She grinned at him and shook her head. "After all the hours we spent today, after  _I_  kissed you, repeatedly, if a stranger passed by and told you were an ugly loser or something, you would believe that?"

"I would not ...  _not_  believe it," he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Well, that's not my style. I can tell you, in all truth and honesty, right hand on the bible and—"

"You're Jewish."

"I can tell you, right hand on the Torah and all, that you are good with words, and you are empirically, scientifically proven to be attractive, and a really good kisser at that."

He couldn't hide his embarrassment and flashed her a goofy grin. "What do you know, I guess I just needed to meet the cure to my self-loathing mindset."

"Happy to help." She returned his smile, squeezing his shoulder.

* * *

"A vending machine that senses your deepest wants and wishes and grants you what you need to make it happen. For example, one guy puts in a coin and he gets a gun and a fake ID. Another one gets a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates."

"Archie and his friends maneuver a time machine and accidentally find themselves in the middle of the French revolution, helping Valjean escape."

"A group of superheroes who are half-human, half-plants created by scientists through the mixing of human DNA and plant cells, initially as a solution to world hunger so they would feed themselves by photosynthesis, but they become sentient and escape. One of them, however, was messed up in the lab and accidentally got made with carnivore plant DNA, things go crazy. It would be called,  _Botanoids: The Plants Are Up To Something_."

Monica stifled a laugh at Chandler's latest writing pitch as they got out of Covent Garden and walked on The Strand, leading back to Westminster. In the late afternoon, the street was busy with people toing and froing, and loud with tourists, commuters and students from King's College finishing their classes. The faint smell of bread and coffee was hanging in the air, with a hint of alcohol, coming from all the local coffee shops and the pubs starting to fill up ahead of the evening. Chandler held Monica's hand as he told her all about the stories he's been imagining. They walked in a slow pace, contrasting with the people around them rushing like bees around a honeypot.

They found quiet and calm inside St James Park, sitting on a bench, enjoying the slight breeze, vast flowers and freshly cut green grass in silence.

They looked at kids running and playing around, with smiles from ear to ear and their parents close by talking to each other.

"They're so cute. They look so happy," Monica said, staring at the children. Chandler looked at her, and in a flash, he envisioned her there, with her kids. He allowed himself to think of them as  _their_ kids, if only for a fraction of a second, and realized his offer that convinced her to spend the day with him wasn't just a silly attempt at a pick-up line. Right now, he would give her anything.

She looked back at him and beamed with delight. He returned her smile, and focused on the kids again, trying and failing to kick a soccer ball, innocent, free, having the time of their lives.

"Are you happy?" he unanticipatedly asked her.

She narrowed her eyes, almost chuckling. "That's a loaded question. Are  _you_?"

"I don't know if I'll ever be happy. I wish it could be like  _this_ ," he pointed between them, "... all the time. Now I'm happy. Right at this minute, but once I go back home I probably won't be anymore. This happiness looks too good to be sustainable."

"To me, happiness is being truly satisfied with what you have, it's different from contentment. It requires a lot of strength and patience, I don't know if I have that."

They strolled again in the park until they settled on the grass, overlooking the lake. They sat with their legs crossed.

"You know, earlier in the bar … We can't have sex now," Monica said, facing him.

"Because of my ex?"

"I don't want to make  _this_  more complicated. It would be so much harder to say goodbye, and it would mess up with whatever thing you have going on with that girl in LA."

"There's no  _thing_ ," he exclaimed defensively.

"You broke up with her 3 times, which means you came back to her all those times. You literally ran away from her."

He couldn't think of a retort.

"Do we still have our deal? When we're forty?"

"Sure," she lightly replied.

"Are you being serious?"

"Yes. I'll be forty in … 14 years. If I'm not married, I'll travel all the way here, on this very same day in—"

"2009," he dryly cut her off, feeling his chest pinching. He looked down at his lap then back at her. "It's so stupid. You know what? Let's forget about it."

"No, wait! I don't think you'll be unmarried by then either, but you said it yourself, what are the odds? Let's keep it this way. Let's meet here in 14 years on this day."

He studied her for a while, expecting her to suddenly laugh and tell him it was all a joke but she didn't. He leaned towards her and tugged a strand of hair behind her ear. "So no sex, huh?" he said as she smiled at his flirty grin.

"Always leave something undone, it gives you a reason to go back again," Monica said. Her serious tone returned him to the moment. He suddenly felt dread flooding him at the mere prospect of the unavoidable conversation.

"What's next then?" he asked.

A fist of sadness grabbed her, crushing her chest. "Next is … We'll have to say goodbye I guess. I have a rehearsal dinner to attend, and you have dinner with your mom, right?"

She could see in his eyes that he was equally affected, his whole body visibly tightening.

"We have until the sundown then," he said, averting his gaze towards the sky. She followed his stare when a lightbulb went off in her head.

"Crap, I forgot to call my roommate." She mentally calculated the time difference. "She wouldn't be home now."

Chandler waited a moment, then faced her again. "What would you tell her?"

"I would leave a message."

"Ok, I'm your roommate and I'm about to check my answering machine," he said, pretending to click on a button.

She raised a brow then smiled at his antics. Finally, she cleared her throat at his insistence,

"Hi Phoebe, it's Monica. I'm sorry I didn't call before you left for work. I was about to ask you to check the pears at the bottom of the fruit bowl, if it's too old and rotten, they start weeping some disgusting sticky amber resin. Please, please tell me you checked it, and you cleaned the bowl! I swear to God, Pheebs, if it leaked on the table—"

Chandler frowned as she got carried away, he snapped his fingers to get her back on track.

" _Anyway_ , Phoebe, you wouldn't believe what happened to me on the train to London. I met a guy and spent the whole day with him. I know it's crazy and so unlike me. He's American and he leaves tomorrow morning, for California … I don't know why exactly I said yes. I mean, I do. He was so sweet and funny. He told me how lonely he felt as a child, and maybe that's when I fell for him." Chandler's smile faded as she held his gaze, grinning and crinkling her nose, her voice dropped. "And he's so cute. He has beautiful blue eyes, an adorable smile and his hair … Well, his hair is a mess!" she exclaimed, her hand covering her mouth, unable to prevent a small laugh slipping past her fingers.

"He threads his hand in his hair ... all the time! And it gets more and more disheveled." Chandler laughed, dragging a hand through his hair with a smirk.

"When he's flirting, or he's blushing, maybe both, he does this lip thing .. I can't really describe it, he bites it and he smiles and when he does it, I just know he wants to kiss me, and I have a feeling he knows I can't resist that." She looked at him fixedly, blue eyes glowing with seriousness and affection and lust. He felt his breath catching, a strange sensation running down his spine.

"That's it! I'll see you soon. Clean the fruit bowl please!"

The way he was looking at her now, she knew it was tempting fate. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her.  _You have to be strong_ , she kept reminding herself, all she could do was  _this_ : Kissing him, be close to him, feel his warmth, even if a simple grin threatened to destroy her. Enjoy each other's company for the reminding of their day together, enjoy it for now.

For now. Those conditional words kept reverberating inside her head all day. This is _for now_.  _For now_ was all they had.

"What would you tell your roommate?" she asked him in return.

"Oh, I don't know."

"Pick up, he's calling you now," she said, gesturing a phone call with her hand. "Hey  _bro_ , what's up?" she asked in a low raspy voice.

"Hey Joe." He chuckled at her impression while holding his own invisible phone.

"How is Europe treating you? Having a good trip … dude?"

"No …  _bro_. It pretty much sucked. All that time on trains just made me think again and again about the job, and whether I should quit. I was wallowing. I didn't talk to anyone for days and I never felt more invisible in my life. I thought I should just go back home, back to my job and back to Janice, and be done with it. At least, I'd still have a job and I wouldn't die alone."

"What changed?"

"Get this. On my last day and my last night in Europe, I met someone. Someone very special."

A smile tugged at her lips and her eyes glinted.

"No way! How did you meet?"

"We met on the train to London. I was sleeping then some weirdos were making noise in the front so this girl moved back and happened to sit across the aisle from me. I don't think she even noticed me at first. We began to talk. I felt so stupid ... well, you know me, I can always be counted on to say the worst possible thing in a delicate moment. I kept apologizing all the time. She's so smart and passionate and beautiful and I was a total doofus."

Her smile broadened. "I'm sure that's not true. I think there's a reason she decided to sit across you … she was probably checking you out. We, men, aren't very observant, you know. We know nothing about women. Now, let me ask you the only question that matters for us, guys. Is she hot?"

His mouth gaped in mock shock. "Joey! That's not very appropriate. I respect women far too much to—" he paused when she furrowed her forehead before continuing, "All right. She's  _the_  hottest. Her eyes are breathtaking, her skin is so soft, and she has all those freckles, and I feel like I'm trying to figure her out like some kind of Mayan code. Is she trying to hide them or not? Who knows."

Her cheek flushed as she got self-conscious about her freckled shoulders, putting a hand to cover them. "I bet you she's not that complicated," she said delicately, before going back to her delivery of a 'bro voice'. "I think you might idolize her a little, I'm sure she has lots and lots of annoying and terrible flaws."

"She doesn't, Joe, trust me. I mean, I heard her laugh, and she snorts when she laughs too hard, and I thought it would annoy me." He grinned at her outraged expression. "You know how creepy annoying laughs drive me crazy, but it doesn't, it's sweet and cute and it made me like her more. But you know, the best thing is how great we get along. I told her things I would never tell anyone, even under torture,  _bro._ "

"Man, I don't know what happened to you in Europe! You've turned into such a sap."

Chandler laughed as Monica patted his shoulder.

* * *

It was undeniably a glorious summer day in London coming to an end. The sky was defiant, blue and pink, only slightly awash while the sun was slowly giving up its hold. Lying there on the soft grass, with Chandler beside her, Monica focused on the clouds rolling like all the hours they spent together. Home, weddings, this foreign city, everything seemed remote at that moment. She lost all sense of reality and felt time standing still, a state of content and lightness overwhelming her, as if she was floating. An ephemeral emotion yet eternal, or the opposite.

She closed her eyes shut when she felt his fingers brushing up and down her arm. She turned to him, running a thumb along his jaw. "Do you have a fantasy?" she asked and his eyes flickered instantly.

"Yeah. You."

"What?"

"No, nothing."

She could feel his skin heat up, either from excitement or embarrassment, she couldn't tell.

"This was mine. Meeting someone in a foreign country. I hate it now."

He narrowed his eyes. "That's your fantasy?"

"You know,  _the fantasy_  of falling in love with someone in a romantic foreign city and spending the rest of your life together," she said, matter of factly.

Chandler chuckled. "That's not a thing."

"Hey, I'm baring my soul to you!"

He cast his gaze back up to the sky. "Yeah well, people let you down when you open up to them," he said slowly, a hint of sadness in his voice.

She propped herself up on her elbow, her head resting on her hand, looking down at him,

"Did you open up to your Queens girl?" she asked, her hand playing with the strands of his hair.

"No," he said, still looking straight ahead. "But she has seen the worst version of myself. The one that puts in minimal, passable effort."

"And what version of yourself am I getting?"

"The one that is trying  _so_  ridiculously hard, and is still failing."

" _This is_  the best version of yourself?"

He met her eyes and pouted as she smiled with a rueful little grin. "I'm kidding. You're pretty great."

She gave him a peck on the lips and laid on her back again. He turned on his side to stare at her.

"I don't know if it's because of our circumstances, but there's something about today or ... about you, that makes me want to try harder," she said softly.

"You can just be yourself with me, Chandler."

"Haven't you noticed how many times I screwed up already? I _am_  being myself, but, you know, just a little better and a little more honest."

Monica smiled appreciatively at him, glancing down at his lips. Chandler ran his hand through her hair, he dropped his mouth to hers and kissed her softly, a sweet sigh fell from her lips. His body was draped over her now as he traveled over her jaw, and nibbled on her ear. All the affection, the attraction she felt for him was about to combust when she held a hand against his chest in a last ditch attempt to 'be strong'.

"It's not fair to her," she whispered.

"I know." He disengaged his body from her and sat up.

"I don't want today to be reduced to an anecdote. I don't want to be the  _girl with multiple lovers_ , or the  _I win guy_  kind of story. The woman you met on a train and scored with. The ultimate one night stand."

"That's not why I wanted it to happen."

Monica wanted to punch herself for the look of sadness and annoyance she put on his face.

She sat with him and held his hand. "I was going to, in the bar. I think I wanted you ever since we got off the train, but we've talked so much and I—"

Chandler cut her off and draped an arm around her, he pulled her in close to reassure her. "I get it." He kissed her forehead as they focused on appreciating the scenery.

They walked in silence on Westminster Bridge after leaving the park, stopping mid-way to admire the sun gradually dipping behind Big Ben, filling the horizon with the most brilliant shades of orange, complemented by the lingering hints of grey and mauve of the forthcoming night sky.

The water on the Thames was gleaming with the last rays of the dying day, and it all felt surreal to her. Like they were trapped in an impressionist painting.

"This feels like a dream," Monica said, resting her elbows on the guardrail of the bridge.

"It does."

"I hate that it ends this way, the night sets in and we wake up," she added.

"Everything in life comes to an end eventually." Chandler cringed at his use of platitudes. Seeing her sad, tight-lipped smile, he wished he could erase any hurt she's ever been through. "Supposedly, it's what makes it interesting," he added.

"Like us today. If we were gonna see each other next week, it wouldn't feel so …"

"Intense. Yeah."

She swallowed nervously to prevent her voice from wobbling. "Do you think we'll see each other before I'm 40?"

"I don't know if I'm going to New York soon, I don't know many people over there. Do you know people in LA?"

Her eyes pinned him, she said nothing for a moment that lasted too long for Chandler.

She lowered her gaze, her tone was soft, tender and resigned. "This is depressing."

"It's complicated."

He dropped his eyes as well, her sharp, skeptic look felt like a cold shower.

"Your dreams are in New York, I'm in L.A. I just got a job promotion, and my best friend, and possibly the only person I care .. cared for … so far, wouldn't survive without me."

She pursed her lips. "I hate this. I hate that we had to meet here and now."

"If I had to choose right now, I would offer to marry you and have kids with you straight away, if it means I get to see you again next week. Hell, I would do the long distance thing." Chandler looked slightly agitated, dragging a hand through his hair and his tone turning desperate. Monica squeezed his shoulder to bring him back to their reality.

"You don't want to do that. Letters, phone calls? Then what? It will fizzle out. Relationships are hard enough, and ours … it hasn't even started," she said softly with an apologetic smile.

"I know. It would cheapen our special time together." He took her hand, bringing her closer to him. "So it really ends with the sunset."

She nodded and rested her head on his shoulder, she turned and murmured in his ear, "Just so you know, I will never regret meeting you."

At the end of the bridge, they arrived at the entrance of the Marriott hotel. Chandler recalled how he felt in the morning when they stood there. He remembered how nervous and excited he was, like a child on a Christmas morning or playing with a hose in the backyard. Pure unadulterated joy. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

They were standing side by side, looking up at the Edwardian building, an illuminated fountain behind them. A perfect setting for the end scene of a Disney fairytale. For any happy ending.

She took a step forward and turned to face him, breathing heavily, parting her lips then closing them.

"I hate goodbyes," he said, feeling her inability to speak.

"Me too." She cleared her throat, trying to compose herself. "Maybe we don't need a goodbye. Maybe, when you have a special connection with someone, it stays with you forever. We'll be part of each other for the rest of our lives in ways we don't even know about."

"Maybe."

The silence felt heavier than the talk, Chandler could sense the charged air. If only he could find the right words, to distract her and distract himself from the pain. He wanted to speak, say something eloquent but he didn't know where to begin.

"I should go get your bag," she said, breaking the stillness that took hold of them.

"Right."

She went through the corridor entrance, and Chandler watched her silhouette slowly fading. Suddenly, he didn't feel ready to face the situation. His breathing became more rapid and more shallow, there was a hurricane inside him. He considered what options, any option that would prevent the inevitable. A declaration of love? A proposal? Yes, they made no promises. That was the deal, he knew the score, but as he felt the organs in his rib cage throttling, crushing him, he hoped for a miracle, anything to keep the doors open.

Chandler realized his vision was blurred, he blinked vigorously and saw her reappear.

He took a deep breath and smiled at her.

"I guess this is it," Monica said, handing him the bag.

"This is the worst."

"It sucks."

They both chuckled nervously.

Monica hugged herself, drawing a sharp inhale and looking at him intently.

"Be happy, okay? Find something you love, have fun and work hard at it."

"I will. Good luck with the wedding, the internship, the chef thing and … just everything."

She bit her lip as if she was holding in all her sadness. "Thank you."

She glanced at the entrance, "I have to get changed."

He nodded.

And there it was, silence again. They looked into each other's eyes for the longest minute of their lives. Chandler reached for Monica's hand and clasped it tightly. He forced himself to smile at her and she smiled back. It was the mutual acknowledgment and realization of what it meant, of how they've changed, and changed each other in unexpected ways forever. He stepped forward and hugged her to feel her warmth one last time. They embraced tenderly for several moments, not wanting to let go. Not when their embrace felt like the solution to world peace.

She looked up at him and he leaned to kiss her. A slow and sweet kiss challenging time.

Then, they parted.

"Goodbye," she said meekly.

"Bye."

Monica turned, and disappeared inside the entrance. Chandler felt his feet stuck there, he couldn't look away. In a second, he imagined her turning back, telling him this wasn't the end.

She didn't look back, and hurried inside.

She was gone.

His gaze fell to the ground.

With a lump in his throat and a bag on his shoulder, Chandler walked back on Westminster Bridge, the blue and purple sky was quickly losing its battle with the darkness of the night.

On the sidewalk, he watched a mother with her son walking in front of him. The child was clutching a red balloon in one hand, the other was tightly clasped by his mother.

The Big Ben bell chimed, distracting the little boy. He opened his hand and lost grip on the string, suddenly the balloon was flying away. He screamed and tried to get his mother's attention. She dismissed it for another tantrum, but to Chandler, his cry was a dagger piercing his beating heart. He didn't take a moment to think, he ran after the balloon, passing by the mother and her child, leaving her surprised and flabbergasted. Chandler wasn't bothered by her reaction, or all the dirty looks and words from people he was shoving in his rush, his eyes were only fixed on the balloon. A gusting wind changed its direction, it gathered speed, and it was too late. He couldn't go any further, the balloon was floating over the river Thames, disappearing and morphing into a red point in the infinite horizon.

He stopped, breathless, with a haunting, unbearable sense of loss and looked back at the mother. She shrugged her shoulders as he shot her a sorry look, an apology she didn't ask for. He looked at the small child whose hot tears were drying up on his face, and was staring blankly at the strange man.

Chandler turned away, joining the walking crowds of Londoners on the pavement, drowning in a sea of indifference and chaos.

The sun went down. All the buildings and the streets lit up, the night revealing a new side to the city. A different kind of energy, a mysterious sense of danger and possibility.


	7. Chapter 7

Monica could still feel Chandler's eyes fixed on her as she walked inside the hall of the hotel, aching with the need to look back. She couldn't, fearing she would fall apart; deciding instead to hold the pain internally, even if it made her heart crack like glass.

So she kept walking, looking straight ahead; not paying attention to anything on her left or on her right, shutting down her peripheral vision.

She moved through the lobby straight towards the elevator and hit the call button frantically, praying it was empty and no one would join her inside. She never felt so vulnerable in her life. The doors opened, she hit the button again, holding her breath until they finally closed.

The elevator went up and the tears came rolling down.

Tonight, she would have to be calm, collected, joyful. Hold her head high and smile in the face of everyone, but here, trapped in a metal box with hands gripping the rails, the mask dropped.

If it didn't relieve her from the sadness, at the very least, it released the tension growing in her whole body. The moment they had decided the sunset was figuratively and literally the end of their relationship, she tried to keep it together, for herself, or for Chandler perhaps.

It didn't exactly feel like a relationship. Was it a tryst? A miraculous fleeting encounter?

Or maybe, after some time, she would remember it like a dreamlike experience, deeply ingrained in her subconscious, that would manifest later in the form of 'universe signs' and synchronistic connections — Looking back at it in a positive light, and believing, with future acquired wisdom, that everyone we meet, we meet for a reason.

"Ding." The doors opened again. She inhaled and exhaled to keep the tears in check. It dawned on her she would probably never see him again.

Or in 14 years.

An eternity.

Monica opened her room with the keycard and once inside, hopped in the shower. Moments later, she heard a knock on the door as she was getting dressed.

"Who is it?"

"It's Ross! Where were you? Everyone's waiting for you!"

"Why are they waiting— You're the one getting married!"

"Mom is looking for you."

"I'm coming over."

She wore a sheath, dark pink dress and quickly tied her hair into a chignon. She checked her reflection in the mirror, satisfied with her makeup successfully hiding the puffiness around her eyes. She was about to reflexively apply powder to cover some of the freckles peppered between her shoulders and her neck, and it made her think of Chandler. Was she going to associate every little thing with Chandler now? Infected and clobbered by his memory?

Monica left the freckles visible and grabbed her purse as she headed to the ceremony hall on the other side of the hotel.

**GELLER/WALTHAM WEDDING**

_**Friends and family dinner** _

She took a steadying breath before entering. The dining area was impeccably elegant, with marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and eye-catching antique dining chairs.

Monica greeted her brother and her parents, soon joined by Emily who introduced them to Mr. and Mrs. Waltham.

"You're late," whispered her mother.

"I know, I had something to do— I'm sorry." She didn't have the strength to get into an argument. Emily's parents were in deep conversation with her father. When they left to join their table, she heard Mrs. Waltham utter to her husband, "I don't understand why they're having a rehearsal dinner, it's an American tradition. They better pay for it."

It was going to be a long night.

The photographer approached them. "Let's get one with just the couples," he said.

It was her cue to leave them and sit at her family's table. At each setting place, there was a small double-framed photo, one side had the engagement picture of the couple and the other side had a replica of the wedding invitation. She smiled at the look of happiness radiating from the picture, yet it still felt like a stab in the heart.

"Is this seat taken by your plus one?"

She heard a man say behind her, and without turning, she held her glass and answered dejectedly, "Alcohol is my plus one."

The man took a seat beside her. Monica didn't bother to take a look at him.

"We are gathered here tonight, family and friends to celebrate something rare and beautiful. Something truly magical," announced a member of the Waltham family from the microphone.

"The real magical thing tonight is the open bar," joked the man setting beside Monica.

She thought for a second it was the kind of remark Chandler would have made in such a moment. She gave him a polite smile. It wasn't the same. It didn't have the same playfulness or the glint in the eyes or the smirk that made her heart flutter.

Forget about the positive light — What if this day was going to ruin her life from now on? Hold her back and set unattainable expectations for the rest of her days?

She still craved him, so much. His touch, the feeling of his eyes on her when she looked away. Maybe they should have let the attraction combust, light the fire until it died down on its own. Get it out of their system.

Maybe it would have allowed both of them to move on, simply release the tension. Maybe sex was, contrary to what she told him, the key to making it less painful.

It was too late anyway, he was somewhere in London and in a couple of hours, he would be in Los Angeles.

The apparition of Ross with Emily in front of the microphone, thanking their guests, brought her out of her ruminations.

She examined the man beside her at last. A perfectly fine man, who seemed willing to give her all the attention in the world.

In other circumstances, she might have even melted at his British accent. Right now, however, all she felt was emptiness.

She excused herself to the bar, hoping each drink tonight would help wash away his image from her mind.

* * *

There were quite a few instances in life that Chandler considered to be in his Pantheon of Woe, the most depressing moments he's lived through. That fateful Thanksgiving of 1978 was still comfortably at the top, but this moment, in a cab, looking absentmindedly through the window, was up there. It was too early to quantify his pain, but it sure felt worse already than all the times his dad came to his swim meets dressed as a Hollywood star.

Ironically, Chandler couldn't remember a more thrilling, enriching day in his life.

Perhaps it was the combination of joy and heartbreak, in such a short span of time, that made this ride at night all the more desolate.

Is it possible to feel nostalgia for something that lasted less than a whole day, and ended less than an hour ago?

The cab stopped in front of the Quo Vadis, an upscale restaurant in Soho. His mother had picked the place, on the basis of its status as a hotspot for exclusive clubs and celebrities.

It was a miracle Chandler managed to get hold of her to plan this dinner. He had informed her of his European trip, and she told him she could squeeze him between two book signings in London and Lisbon after checking with a horde of assistants and publicists. Somehow, that made him feel even more like an inconvenience in her life.

Since a young age, Chandler developed strategies to cope with life's inevitable disappointments. He developed a strategy to deal with his parents either neglecting him or embarrassing him, he developed a strategy for people not noticing him, for women not taking him seriously.

He didn't have a strategy for heartbreak, however. Not this kind of heartbreak. The kind where heaven's doors were opened in front of him, and he got to sneak a peek and just when he was about to step a foot inside, the doors shut down in his face.

How do you survive that? All good things must come to an end, but it hadn't even started. He wanted a taste of the good thing. Maybe then, he would feel better about the ending.

He sat on a stool at the bar of the restaurant, waiting for his mother. She was predictably late. He ordered a drink, just to look busy, and watched people walk with umbrellas in the street past the plate-glass window, making note of the light rain starting to fall, and he focused back on the people inside. There was an old man slumped at the end of the bar, alone and dejected, staring numbly and holding on to his drink as if it was his lifeline. Was he turning into that guy? It felt like he was taking that path, and today he had the once-in-a-lifetime chance at blissful happiness dangled before him and quickly taken away.

The truth was that he never felt as alive as he did today, it was eye-opening, he had embraced reality like never before and didn't try to escape at any moment. He wondered why he couldn't do that back home. He had taken the wrong path without catching the warning signs.

The music subsided for a soft, quiet piano song. For a moment, he felt total detachment and caught himself eavesdropping on the people around him, the stimulus of conversation temporarily suspending his existential dread.

He listened to the voices of two women on his right, one sounded nervous and sad, the other was trying to be comforting.

"We were in the bathroom, and I was taking off my makeup. He went .. he didn't say it directly, he was like going about how .. how he doesn't know what he's feeling."

"About what? Himself or you?"

"About me … and us. And where we're going."

At his left, a man and a woman were much more cheerful. Chandler guessed they were on a first date.

"What's on your list?

"It's a really long list."

"How many you've got?

"20."

"20?! Bring it on."

"Travel the world. Live abroad for a year. Reconnect with a childhood friend. Stay married until I die. Overcome my fear of heights. Go skydiving. A proposal so unique and romantic it would make my grandchildren cry. Fight for a cause. Make people aware of an important issue. Love and be loved unconditionally …"

Was it better to be distracted by life and hold on to the belief that things will work out for the best?

A jazz tune came from the live band bringing him out of his trance, Chandler spotted the barman, and asked for a sheet of paper from his notepad. He started to write furiously, completely absorbed until he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Hi, mom," he said, and looked at his watch. "Right on time."

"Punctuality only makes you lonely, kiddo." She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him.

Chandler folded the sheet of paper and put it in his back pocket. She was wearing a side-slit dress with a low-cut neck, shiny jewelry, and big black glasses, the kind celebrities wear to hide from the paparazzi. He believed his mother would try to find a way to outshine the Queen of England.

The maître d' accompanied them to their table as they made their way to the dining room. The glowing lights, exquisitely stained glass windows and fine table arrangement created a chic, trendy atmosphere that made customers feel like film stars.

Chandler felt terribly undressed, he rolled his eyes at his mother blatantly looking the headwaiter up and down. She turned to her son and smirked. "Don't you just love these British men?"

"Ah yes, I'm crazy about them," he ironized.

They sat at their table, Chandler ordered a steak dinner and was relieved when his mother didn't ask for the spicy chicken.

* * *

Monica was standing in the back of the room, close to the bar cart, watching Ross and Emily from afar, and a drink never leaving her hands. She glanced at her parents, still in discussion with the Walthams, although in a calmer tone. She looked again at the happy couple, beaming at each other with an honest expression of love and affection.

She didn't want to be that person, bitter and depressed at a wedding. Hours ago, she had anticipated feeling a tinge, a flash of envy seeing her brother find happiness again or her mother slip a snarky remark or two, targeting precisely where all her emotional landmines were buried, but she still anticipated to be ecstatic. She loved weddings, she loved everything about them.

What she didn't prepare herself for was falling for someone, so deeply and unexpectedly, discover the kind of connection she craved for years. The kind of immediate bonding she suspected hardly comes often in life.

It had to be this day and this place, and she had to give it up. No, nothing prepares you for life's cruel irony.

She went back to her seat, still not paying attention to the man next to her.

"You look beautiful," he said, with an earnest smile.

Monica brushed off the compliment, not sure why. On another day, she would be mortified at her own behavior. He didn't do anything and certainly didn't deserve the cold shoulder treatment. She just wasn't in the mood. She wasn't in the mood for anything, but especially not a celebration of long-lasting love and commitment shoved in her face.

"You know, when your mother told me that I get to be your date at the wedding, I couldn't believe—"

Monica almost spat out her drink. "She did what now?" Her eyes widened at his innocent revelation.

"Your mother. She told me you were too shy to ask me, I'm glad she did."

"Are you kidding me!"

She pushed her chair back and stood up, scanning the room to find her mother, before looking down again at the man.

"Look, I don't even know your name. How could you think I would go through my mother to ask you out, and to my brother's wedding?" she snapped.

"Well, I'm Donal but everyone calls me Don. I went to university with Emily. I'm sorry, I thought you were shy—"

"That's fantastic, Don. Nice to meet you. Or not actually." She looked down at his flustered face and sighed. "I'm sorry, this has nothing to do with you. I can't be your date tomorrow."

"Oh. That's a shame," said Don, followed by a bitter smile. "My congratulations to your brother." He got up and left after Monica couldn't maintain eye contact with him.

She went to her mother and pulled her apart. "You asked a random guy to be my date tomorrow?"

"Monica, I don't want you to mope around and ruin everyone's fun at the wedding," she explained. Somehow her mother made it sound like she was doing her a favor, and that frustrated her even more.

"Oh yes, everyone is having so much fun. Dad fighting over money with the Walthams, Emily running around fixing table seatings and Ross jumping up and down, don't want to spoil that!"

"Calm down, dear, we don't want to make a scene. I thought you would appreciate that I found someone you can dance with. He's a very nice man. It's not like you bring us home Oxford-educated men very often."

Monica clenched her teeth and exhaled, she couldn't do this. She shook her head at her mother, and turned to leave, heading towards the exit. Just as she was about to storm out, she was stopped by an announcement coming from the microphone.

"We ask for the bridesmaid and sister of the groom to join us here for a toast!"

She froze. The speech. The toast she had volunteered to do, in front of people. She had forgotten about it with everything that had happened.

She reluctantly went to pick up the cue cards in her purse, then walked to the microphone, her hands shaking as she was trying to straighten them.

She squared her shoulders and took a quiet breath. She looked at the attendance, Emily and Ross, her parents, the few members of her family that made the trip.

She cleared her throat and began.

"Good evening. I'm not the most eloquent speaker so … Em, I'm one of the bridesmaids, and also the sister of the groom. Ross and I had our ups and downs ever since we were kids, I've got the scars to prove it," she said, pointing unenthusiastically to a scar on her hand. A few chuckles and smiles appeared.

"But today I'm happy to call him one of my best friends. Emily, I don't know you as well, but when I see you two together, and I see how enthusiastic and full of life he is with you, I know my brother is a very happy man."

A flash of memory hit her. She had been enthusiastic and full of life with Chandler today. She laughed and smiled, she loved and felt indescribable things.

She needed to fast forward, the words were swirling in front of her, levitating off the cards. She couldn't say out loud her own words anymore, the words celebrating how important it was to give love a chance when she denied herself that just hours earlier, were taunting her now.

"You know … Ross, I think you're so brave. I wish that one day, I'll have your faith and courage," she meekly finalized.

Ross blinked at the cryptic speech, the attendance was simply staring. Her parents furrowing their brows.

She ripped off the cards in half and walked toward the doors with her head down, hoping her emotion would be perceived as happiness for the couple. The room went silent.

* * *

"Could you believe this place used to be a brothel?"

"Thanks to the privilege of being your son for 27 years; yes, I can believe it."

Nora smiled at his deadpanned answer. She took a sip of her drink, and studied him. "What's new with you?"

Chandler fidgeted in his chair, playing with the napkin on the table. "Not much."

"You're taking time off work?"

"Just a little vacation. Work is good."

Nora nodded, resigned to her son's unwillingness to expand his answers.

"Oh, I almost forgot. A Hollywood producer approached me for a movie adaptation of Mistress Bitch."

Chandler winced. "I kinda wish you forgot." He stared at his mother as she rose her eyebrows. "That's great, mom. Congratulations," he said in a sincere voice.

"Thank you, honey. It will be X Rated."

"Naturally."

She smirked. "It's going to be everywhere, with 'Based on the novel by Nora Tyler Bing' in the credits," she said, gesturing the title with her hand.

"I'm beaming with pride. How will I ever live up to our family's legacy?"

Nora cackled, refilling her glass of wine as the waiter arrived with their food.

"So, where's your boyfriend?" Chandler asked.

"Fiancé, Chandler, I told you we're engaged."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"He had a meeting that ran long, he apologizes. Actually, he's the Hollywood producer."

"Wow. You two are like Cleopatra and Julius Caesar, united to conquer the porn industry."

Nora didn't even pay attention to Chandler's sardonic remark. "Enough about my love life, I'm not the twenty-something living the single life in LA, how exciting! How are things with that girl… Janet? Janine?"

" _Janice_."

"Yes. Janice! Is she the one? Will you make an honest woman out of her? Will I see little Bings running around soon?" she asked, flashing a wide grin.

"Oh God. No. Not now … not ever!" He rubbed the nape of his neck. "We're not … an item anymore."

"You know what? It's fine. I'm too young to be a grandmother anyway."

"Yes, that's what matters most here."

"I would make a fabulous grandmother." Nora laughed and noticed his plate still full.

"What's with you? You seem troubled," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "More-than-usual troubled. Did something bad happen on your trip?"

"No. Not bad. Just ... I kind of met someone today." Chandler looked down, a dark cloud hovering at the edge of his thoughts.

"Kind of?" she followed his eyes until she met them. "Then what are you doing here tonight? Go get lucky!"

He sighed. "Stop it, mom. I won't go. I leave in the morning. It's nothing— forget about it. Let's have dinner," he said, cutting his food strenuously.

"Oh honey, it doesn't seem like nothing."

She reached for his hand to stop him. Chandler swallowed tightly, his distressed eyes not even telling the half of it. He looked up at her. "It's not."

Nora strengthened her grip on his hand, her eyes filled with gentle concern.

"I'm not really hungry, kiddo."

He shook his head. "Mom, don't."

She retracted her hand and paused. "Look at me, Chandler. It's good. This is good. You need to allow yourself to feel things, even if you might end up hurt. You can't go through life trying to shield yourself from any emotion. Take your chance, without afterthought, without any restriction, even if your chance is slight. One loves because one loves."

Chandler narrowed his eyes. "Is that from one of your books?"

"Maybe," she said with a brazen smile. "It doesn't matter, it applies in your case."

She gestured to the waiter and asked for the tab.

"You're sure?" he asked her.

"Yes. Just go. For once in your life, don't be a cynic." She looked outside through the windows. "Oh it's raining, you could run to her, kiss her in the rain! My heart might just melt."

Chandler shook his head. "That's so cliché, I'll take a cab."

"Fine, take my umbrella then." In an instant, her eyes flickered. "Oh it's a London Fog umbrella, it's fate!"

Chandler rolled his eyes and stayed silent. Nora got up and hugged him before going to the bathroom.

He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to reflect on the words his mother just told him. Why would he run to someone he just met? He still had a flight to catch, and she still had a wedding tomorrow.

He flashed back to the moment he saw Monica for the first time on the train, when they made brief eye contact and her lips slowly quirked up.

Then later, at the end of a quiet alley, when she rested her head on his shoulder as they were swaying to music sounding from the street, and he closed his eyes, and they still danced after the song was over.

It was clear now.

The boat trip on the canal, how she leaned for him to kiss her, and that moment of pure lust in the pub, the feeling of his flesh against hers.

It was crystal clear.

There was no reasonable action, no logical explanation. His mother was right, these things don't have time for afterthoughts.

He only had time to realize he wanted to kiss her again, needed to hold her again, dance with her and yes, make love to her.

He stood up, and kissed his mother's cheek when she came back as she nodded in acknowledgment.

He took the umbrella and walked quickly towards the entrance.

Outside the restaurant, he opened the umbrella, watching the road to hail a cab. The traffic was jammed, cars and buses and taxis all stuck.

He first walked in grueling pace, to the rhythm of the raindrops beating on the surface of the umbrella, and quickly sped up. He felt the adrenaline fueling him and his heart throbbing against his chest. Chandler didn't have a logical reason for running so fast, he didn't know what clock he was running against either, he had no plan— for how to find her or how to barge into a wedding rehearsal. All he knew was that he had to keep running  _towards_  her, get closer to her. It was the only way to appease his ache.

By Trafalgar Square, the wind was roaring, and testing his umbrella. Trying to keep hold of it was slowing him down so he decided on a whim to throw it away once he passed a trash can.

He felt his legs get heavier and his throat rasping. The rain was lighter and slower, running down in a thin layer over his face, streaming through his hair. He stopped for a moment, his breath coming fast and hard. With his hands on his buckle knees, he looked up to see Big Ben.

He resumed running. This was the fastest Chandler ever ran a mile in his life.

* * *

Monica got out of the reception hall, she walked as fast as she could with her heels until reaching the lobby. She glanced at the elevator and pondered whether to go hide in her room. Instead, struggling to regulate her breathing, she decided to get out for fresh air.

The air was humid with an earthy scent hanging. It had just stopped raining.

She inhaled and exhaled a couple of times and sat by the fountain in the entrance. Her eyes were watering, without accompanying emotion other than exhaustion.

Slowly, a blurry silhouette appeared in front of her, getting closer.

Had she gone crazy? Was she imagining things now or she just got that drunk?

She blinked and rubbed her eyes.

He was there. He found her.

Chandler stood from a distance, gaping at her distressed sight, hugging herself and shivering. He took off his jacket and cautiously took a few steps to cover her with it.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, looking down at his shuffling feet.

"In case you're wondering, I didn't run in the rain like a crazy person just to kiss you like in the movies, I had an umbrella but it was so windy ... I do want kiss you though," he stammered. "If that's okay," he added.

Her vision became clearer. He was close enough now to see his facial features, droplets of water drenched in his hair, his blue eyes so shiny it was enough to warm her up.

"You know how people keep saying 'it's not the heat, it's the humidity' when they make pointless small talk. Well, I think people in London probably say, 'it's not the rain, it's the  _bloody_  wind." He let out a nervous laugh.

Her lips quirked up, a look of relief spreading on her face

"I have no idea what I was thinking, running over here. I'm pretty sure my lungs exploded, and I really didn't think this through. I just needed to see you again."

Her smile broadened. She stood up and tightened the jacket around her shoulders.

"You're really here."


	8. Chapter 8

"You're really here."

Monica wrapped Chandler into a tight hug. He didn't melt into the embrace immediately, struck by her affectionate reaction to seeing him.

"You—Were you waiting for me?" he asked.

She blushed, covertly looking at him from beneath her lashes. "Not really."

"Oh."

She cupped his chin until his eyes met hers. "But I'm really happy you're here."

Chandler held his breath, feeling the heat in his face rising up between her hands. His whole expression softened. "I'm happy too." He looked up at the sky and put his hands in his pockets. "I'd be happier somewhere warm and dry though."

"Let's go inside."

She took his hand as they made their way through the lobby and entered the hotel bar. She gave him back his jacket with a thankful smile when they took their seats.

"Do you want something to drink?" asked Chandler.

"Actually, I don't think I should."

"Oh, ok." He cleared his throat and lingered on her face for a moment. "How was the rehearsal?"

"The rehearsal is why I shouldn't drink anymore," she replied with a shrug.

"I see. That bad, huh?"

"On a scale of 1 to my Bat Mitzvah ... about an 8."

He chuckled at her own version of an emotional suffering scale. Sometimes, he felt they couldn't be wired more differently, but at other times, at times like these, he'd realize they were cast in the same mold, and the only words of comfort he had were that he  _got_  her.

But there was still discomfort lingering from their reunion, so he kept silent in fear of saying the wrong things. There was uneasiness in the body language and concern in the voices.

"I don't why it's so awkward all of the sudden. We've been talking all day," Chandler said finally. It wasn't the moment to quip but he couldn't stand the heavy silence.

"I know. I think we're stalling."

"Yeah." He nodded. "What are we doing here?" He looked at her and smiled.

"I don't know. Spending more time together?" She paused a second, hesitant. "Because we still can?"

"It doesn't seem like a wise plan."

"It's not, it's definitely stupid."

They both chuckled nervously, enjoying a moment of reprieve from the charged tension between them.

She lowered her eyes and took a deep breath before looking at him again. "But Chandler, this doesn't change anything, does it?"

Disappointment thundered hard on the heels of the hope Chandler felt moments earlier. They had a deal, he had to remind himself, it was for the best.

"Of course not. A deal's a deal." Chandler's attempt at a smile felt leaden.

Another awkward pause followed, the silence broken only by the sounds of the barman making drinks and shaking cocktails.

Monica drew a breath and forced herself to meet his eyes. "How is your mother?" She regretted instantly asking the question in that casual tone long-time friends use to ask questions about relatives, as if she knew his mother, as if they weren't two people who just met.

"Well, she's ... still her. She might have been the one to convince me. Not that I needed to be convinced, per se, but just give me that push—"

Her hand on his knee cut him off. The feel of it sent electricity through him, his pulse instantly galloping.

"You promised me a kiss," she said softly.

Gaze locked with hers, he slowly ducked his head to her hand still tightly glued to his knee, and swallowed a lump. "I—I did?"

"Yes. The reason you came here, other than wanting to see me again."

Chandler moistened his dry mouth, he grinned and leaned closer. "You're right. I always try to keep my promises."

Her lips opened reflexively and a sound of heightened anticipation slipped through her mouth. His tongue touched her top lip, stroking it softly. He slightly changed the angle to bring their lips into perfect alignment. He felt the anguish evaporating from his body as the kiss went from restrained exploration to consuming passion in one beat of his heart, every long unrestrained stroke of her tongue made his world spun on its axis.

"Let's go to my room," she whispered against his lips. Her voice gravelly as their foreheads rested against each other.

She stood up and he followed her before stopping in his steps. He turned to the barman and asked him, "Can I get a bottle of champagne, please?"

Chandler caught up with Monica, and she smiled at the sight of the bottle.

They stepped into the elevator and the mood felt somber. At least to Chandler. She was quiet and so was he.

She paused when they reached her door and waited until she met his eyes. "Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"I am," he said firmly.

A hint of a smile pulled at her lips, the lock clicked and she pushed the doors open with their hands clasped together.

Chandler put his bag by the door and examined the room before he got closer to the balcony window door.

"Your room has a beautiful view."

"Yeah. I guess it does."

Chandler opened the balcony door, the champagne bottle still in his hands. He looked back at her as Monica joined him. She picked up two glasses and a napkin and switched between rubbing them and inspecting them under the light.

"Monica, it's a 5-star hotel, I'm sure their glasses are clean."

"Most of the silverware in restaurants or hotels are never '5-star clean', trust me on this. You'll thank me later," she retorted, her gaze remaining serious.

"Thanks for saving me from, what I'm sure, is a life-threatening health hazard. Do you know how many Americans die every year from slightly under-cleaned dishes? I'd like to donate to help research."

"Laugh all you want but I totally schooled a restaurant manager in Paris about his dishwashing techniques. Even the chef was humbled."

For a moment, he lost himself in her smiling eyes and her proud grin. He could lose himself in her eyes forever, even when her amusement would dim, and her nostrils would flare slightly— especially then, one corner of his mouth would always inevitably kick up in a wry half-smile. "Very impressive."

"Thanks. I don't like to brag but I only got straight A's in my sanitation class."

He shook his head with a grin. "Now, why wouldn't you brag about that?"

Chandler poured the champagne. They stayed silent for a while, looking over Big Ben and the lights of the city at night. This time, the silence felt more comfortable but still acted as a sobering moment.

He put his glass on the balcony rail and turned to her, she was looking straight ahead. He was fixing her as she threw him a puzzled sideway stare.

He spoke up before she questioned him. "Do you ever wish you could start over?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Just wished you made one different decision that would change everything in your life."

She pondered his explanation.

"I don't think so. Besides, you're not even thirty, you've got your whole life ahead of you."

"I'm three years shy from 30. I don't see how three years can change anything. It's like, at a certain age, this is it, this is your life and this is who you are."

"You're a guy, Chandler. You have plenty of time,  _again_  you can change your life whenever you want to," she said, squeezing his shoulder. She shrugged and looked back at the Clock Tower. "I'm the one running out of time, there's so much I want to accomplish, but I'm scared I'll wake up one day without a career and a family. I don't hear the clock yet, but I can see it and I can see how much time left I have."

"You realize that you're 26, you're not terminal, right?"

"Hush. You started this," she said, waving her hand. Chandler nodded with the hint of a smirk on his cheek.

Monica put down her glass. "I don't want to start over, Chandler. I'm exactly where I'm meant to be," she followed, her voice holding a husky edge.

He leaned and kissed her lips. He lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed. He lowered her and their mouths disengaged, he was waiting for a sign of objection. A word, or even a cue ... But it didn't come. Instead, she slid a hand into his hair and brought his face down to hers. "Kiss me again."

He smiled and obliged as she tugged him close, sealing her mouth to his hungrily.

And for him too, it became clear— He was exactly where he belonged.

His hand went over her dress, over her thigh but she unanticipatedly stopped him and straightened herself up in a sitting position.

His confused dark gaze followed her unreadable one. He sat with her at the edge of the bed and a thick silence followed, almost physical— to Chandler, it felt like a wall of dread hitting him.

"I need to warn you," she said finally. He felt himself stiffen on instinct.

"I—I have specific things that I do, that maybe you will hate. I spent a whole day planning my maps and itineraries and that was fun for me. This morning, I didn't just change in my room. I unpacked everything in a hurry so you wouldn't notice I took too long ... That's me, ok? The real me. I know today has been like a dream, but I want you to know I'm not usually this carefree, I need you to know all this before we go any further."

Relief washed through him, so intense and heady he couldn't help a big smile. Her eyes were holding his, sparkling with so much lust and vulnerability.

"I want you more now than I did when I met you," he said in a low, controlled voice.

She felt the hint of a smile tugging at her lips, and when his lips touched her bare skin as he ran the zipper of her dress down, an aching need shuddered through her.

There was no fumbling, no hesitation. He was confident, steady, almost a different person. But what did she know about him anyway? His name was Chandler, no last name. An only child, willing to mention his mother, doesn't talk about his gay father. A job title she could vaguely remember now. Lived in LA with an actor roommate.

And that was all.

And yet … she knew his hang-ups, his fears, his deepest wishes. Maybe he slipped a secret or two he never told anyone before. She most certainly did.

He was a stranger, but the strange thing was how familiar his presence felt.

Monica closed her eyes, laced her fingers through his hair and sighed at its softness. He lifted her and laid her on the bed, joining her with his hands grazing her hips and sliding down her thighs.

"Did I tell you how amazing you look in this dress?" he murmured.

"No."

"It looks so good on you." He nuzzled her neck and low, soft sounds of approval escaped her throat. "But it has to go." In one motion, Chandler peeled the dress from her shoulders.

"Would you think less of me if I told you I wondered all day what was underneath your dress?" he asked while she started to unbutton his shirt. She smiled at his sudden shyness and shook her head. She wiggled out of the dress and he shed the rest of his clothes.

She saw the flare of his nostrils, and his Adam's apple sliding as he swallowed at the sight of her naked. The unwavering intensity of his eyes made her heart beat so hard she could hear every thud.

"Now you know."

"And now I know."

He couldn't stop kissing her, touching her, seeking and finding the most sensitive spots of her flesh, his fingers constantly circling and lingering. "You said you weren't good at this," she remarked, searching out his gaze. He didn't answer, instead, he eased away a fraction and offered an apologetic smile.

"I'm not complaining, it's just … You're better than you think you are."

He leaned down and pressed a slow intoxicating kiss to her mouth. She caught his hand, and hoped their eyes meeting was enough to signal she couldn't take more tantalizing teasing.

He reached into his pocket and grabbed a condom. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if he just carried it around, but then, she didn't want to know. He was both embarrassed and a little smug about it, and his small grin told her everything. Before he opened his mouth to justify himself — maybe apologize, probably crack a self-deprecating joke, she put a finger to his lips and smiled reassuringly.

Eyes fixed on her, he eased into her body, pressing into her slowly. She dug her fingers into his back, not able to bear the restraint any longer. When she lifted her hips in silent invitation, Chandler finally let himself go, plunging into her with an intensity that rocked her to the core.

At that moment, Monica felt an overwhelming sense of rightness. A feeling of belonging, of being more connected to him than any man she ever met before. It reverberated through her soul so completely, she wondered if she could ever be the same again.

She knew she never wanted to be the same again.

* * *

"Are you leaving?" The question escaped her as a frisson of fear immobilized her.

Her eyes had opened slowly in the darkness, taking in the shy light of early morning dawn. Her body jolted to full consciousness when she heard the creaking of steps, and she could see his naked silhouette moving slowly.

Chandler was looking for his clothes when he heard her low, sleepy voice. He tensed and turned to her. "What? No."

He walked towards her as he put on his boxers, and sat on her side of the bed. He picked up her hands. "I would never do that," he said in a strained voice.

"I'm sorry for insinuating—"

"It's ok, go back to sleep. I'm going to take a shower."

Chandler gently kissed her forehead, and gathered the rest of his clothes.

He was about to go inside the bathroom when her voice, once again, stopped him.

"Can I join you?" she asked.

"Sure," he answered through a smile.

Minutes later, Chandler stepped into the shower.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of the shower steam pounding against the tile, waterfalls sliding down his body, enjoying for a moment his perfectly relaxed state.

He was exhausted. Wonderful. Floating on a cloud.

Monica opened the shower door with a sultry smile. Chandler felt his breath hitch. She joined him under the stream, grabbed the bottle of shampoo, and lathered his hair. Then he grabbed the bottle and did the same for her. He took his time, wanting to worship her, wanting her to bask in the moment. He washed her body and her hair, then tipped her head back to rinse her out.

She lifted her chin, and softly whispered, "Thank you."

Awareness arced between them. Images from that night filled his senses, the short and panting breaths, the touches, the excitement as the distance between them closed. The memories of her and his longing overtaking him.

She looked right into his eyes, and Chandler wondered if she was picturing the same scenes that burned into his mind.

He swallowed weakly, and as if she could read him, she looped her arms around his neck.

Her eyes were suddenly edged with hurt and pain. The same kind he saw before, when they said their goodbyes in the evening. He knew what it meant, but he wanted to fight it, contain that feeling as his throat tightened and the anguish returned.

She twisted her mouth into a tight little smile — a pained, sad smile, and rested her head on his chest.

He had allowed his heart to hope, he had forgotten himself, and he loved.

It all came crashing down.

Letting go of someone you love when you're still loving them was a special kind of awful he was not prepared for.

So he stayed there, tightly embracing her under the water, stuck in this haunting purgatory between two goodbyes.

She tightened her grip on him, with a tacit understanding of what was about to disintegrate, just as they were on the cusp of the kind of love he didn't even dare to imagine.

Chandler always firmly believed he wasn't meant to be one of the few lucky people to experience love so powerful it would make the heart grow bigger, and threaten to break it completely.

The water ran cold and it brought him out of inner thoughts. He felt her shiver, and disengage from him. For a glimmer of a moment, he caught the look of her eyes before she stepped out of the shower. Her expression was remote, focused on her own thoughts.

Never had he felt such a bittersweet ache of need, never had he felt so powerless.

* * *

The morning was silent. The weather was perfect.

He looked out from the window as he buttoned up his shirt.

The sun was rising, and Chandler couldn't help but think about all the times, in the past 24 hours, he had looked at the sun setting, crossing the sky and appearing.

There wasn't a more beautiful illusion. The sun was actually never moving, he had to remind himself, the world was spinning around. The world never stopped for anyone.

He turned to find Monica finishing getting ready. She was dressed in a purple collared button down and a skirt, looking intently at her watch, and he could see the wheels turning in her head.

She smiled at him with genuineness. "We have some time. Do you want to take a walk?" she asked.

He smiled back at her, grabbed his bag and opened the door for her.


	9. Chapter 9

"I don't understand joggers."

They walked on the Queen's Walk promenade, along the South Bank. The coolness of the morning was slowly dissipating, the sun rising and already shining. The day hadn't started yet for the masses and the tourists.

There were a few people attracted to the early morning markets, and some joggers on their path, Monica shook her head at Chandler's grimace of disgust.

"I mean, jogging at dawn, it's insane. Look at their faces, look how miserable they are?"

Laughing, Monica wrapped her arm around his waist. "They look fine to me," she said with a mocking smile.

"What? Have you seen one of them smile … ever? Alright, you're a jogger, I get it. Just please tell me you don't go running before ... 7 a.m.?"

She let out another laugh, a soft sound that hummed over his senses, and avoided his stare.

"Oh no, unacceptable … On Sundays too?"

Monica nodded hesitantly, wincing and laughing. Chandler threw his hands up in mock outrage.

"What? I'm sorry but I need to keep in shape."

"You know what other physical activity can keep you in shape and is actually pleasant?" He teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

"And you happen to  _excel_  at this physical activity?"

"You tell me."

"Really? You need me to say it?"

"I'm an insecure neurotic nutcase," Chandler said, giving her a pleading look.

"I think I made it abundantly clear how good it was last night, and that's enough ego stroking for you," Monica replied in a husky-edged voice, the slow sweep of her blue-eyed gaze cranked Chandler's awareness up a notch.

He swallowed to keep his voice low and controlled. "No such thing as enough  _stroking_  when it comes to a man's  _ego_ ," he responded with a self-congratulatory grin.

Tilting her head on the side, she smiled wryly. "It was off the charts, Chandler. The definition of mind-blowing. Can we let it go now?"

"I wasn't fishing for such high compliments but I like what I caught."

She rolled her eyes and warm laughter streamed through him.

Restaurants and shops lined up along the path, with punctuated art walls once they neared the National Theater. The two of them were winding down the riverfront when Monica was stopped by the sight of a small poster on a lamp post, advertising the Hampton Court Palace Flower Show. Immediately, her face lightened up. " _The largest flower market in the world_ ," she read. "It looks so beautiful."

"Oh flowers, how exciting," he deadpanned.

She opened her mouth to protest, eyes narrowed and faintly indignant, he cut her off preemptively. "Oh, flowers! How exciting!" he repeated with enthusiasm. She pursed her lips and nudged him playfully.

She looked again at the poster. "Thistles, hydrangeas, astrantias and blackberries, dahlias, veronicas," she listed from the pictures of flowers displayed on it, a look of intense concentration on her face. "Look at the dahlias. They're so pretty." She smiled but her gaze remained serious. "They're known to persevere through difficult living conditions, they're strong and graceful, always. They are unique and beautiful, and in Victorian times, lovers would gift them to each other as a symbol of eternal love and commitment."

As she looked at the poster, Chandler only looked at her, transfixed by her introspective tone. She smiled slowly and found him again. "Oh, it's— nevermind." When she paused a second, with hesitation, Chandler instinctively held his breath. "It's next week. We'll miss it."

He saw her smile dim, and felt his heart sink. Next week. Long after London was but a memory. And it was there again, the persisting sense of impending mourning. He offered a half-smile towards her, and they resumed their walk, looking straight ahead and avoiding each other's gaze.

Thy relaxed slightly as they were sitting at the National Film Theater Coffee Shop for breakfast.

Monica wrapped her fingers around a cup of coffee, enjoying the heat spreading through her hands. She glanced at Chandler, who was sipping his coffee and wincing either from its taste or temperature.

She cleared her throat. "So, what's the story gonna be?" she asked.

"Story?"

"When you tell people about this night?"

He paused, studying her soberly. He racked his brain for a good answer and came up short. He couldn't decide if she was serious or teasing, trying to go back to their easy banter and defuse the tension from earlier.

"When I'm seventy, retired and having drinks with my old pals, reminiscing about our wild, misspent youths, I'll tell them I had the _ultimate one-night stand_  in London with a hot girl from New York. I even gave her a fake name. She thought Chandler was my real name, the poor thing. It wasn't very proper. The whole thing was quite provocative."

She pursed her lips, preventing a laugh and matched his tone. "Are you planning to retire in the 50s?"

They shared a smile. His face then turned serious, making her tense, wondering what would come next. He leaned slowly toward her. "I'm not sure I'm ever going to tell anyone about this night, it's … I feel like I could wake up at any moment and realize it was a figment of my imagination ... Even in my wildest dreams, I never—"

She interrupted his trailed off voice. "Just promise me one thing?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever become a writer, please don't write a book about it?" she asked, half-jokingly.

"I won't. I promise."

"Do you regret coming back? Is it making it harder?" she asked again, in a softer, more serious tone.

"I don't regret anything I've done in the last 24 hours. And … it might be harder, but I think I feel better now," he paused, weighing his words. "Lighter."

"Me too. Maybe we completed the grieving process. Maybe we've made our peace?"

He smiled shyly, enough for her to catch the hint of his dimples.

"Yeah. Maybe."

The story didn't matter to her, or it mattered less than the guy, than the long conversations and secret sharing, than the sex, than the stupendous spark and the intimacy — or the glances, the touches, the tremors, the embraces, the unadulterated joy and affection. What would the story be? Would she even tell it at all? In the back of her mind, she was already jumping ahead, what if she found love after all this? She knew she couldn't tell this story then, it would hang over every relationship after this today, and if anything went wrong, it would be a cruel reminder of what she was missing.

Chandler sensed her brief absent-mindedness and brought his hand over hers, her whole body stilled, wondering if he suspected her turmoil.

He stood up and looked at his watch, and she knew, it was time. Again.

She swore her heart stopped beating, incapable of looking away from his eyes. The pull of that vivid blue gaze was so wistful, she could feel herself trapped in it, sucked forward by it as if it were a vortex.

They walked over Waterloo Bridge, as Chandler indicated he'd have to take a cab to Heathrow and catch his flight. There was a little distance between them and he didn't fail to notice it. He looked over at Monica. He knew she was trying to process their day together. Maybe she was already on the other side. The 'what happens next' side, the final step of the grieving process — after the bliss and emotion of the day, when real life, real responsibilities, real time took over the fairy-sparkle magic. He understood it, despite the tinge of sadness it made him feel. It was a necessary process, maybe even a coping mechanism. He knew a thing or two about coping mechanisms, he couldn't blame her for being demure and quiet the rest of their last walking miles together.

"Do you believe this is fate? Us, meeting like this? Thousands of miles away from where we live?" she suddenly asked, as he was contemplating the luminous golden glow the morning sun was reflecting on the Palace of Westminster on his right side, and the scintillating reflection of the sleepy, dark water of the Thames.

"I don't believe in fate," he replied in a more forceful way than he intended.

"I know," she said, pausing hesitantly. He caught the sadness in her voice, and sighed. "You're not a hopeless romantic, I got it but—"

"I'm not a romantic but hopeless? Oh yes," he joked, in an attempt to lighten her mood.

"I'm not a hopeless romantic either, but this has got to mean something, right?"

"Honestly? I just don't know what this means. It's too soon to grasp it."

She nodded, then lifted her chin. "Do you think it's just .. randomness?"

"No. Not randomness. Look, it's not fate … but it's chance. Right place and right time. And choice. It's what we decided to do with this thing life threw at us."

A small smile curved her lips. "I like that. So it's more romantic in a way?"

Their eyes met and held. He could see the vulnerability emanating from them and her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "Yes, definitely more romantic," he said, returning her smile.

They continued to walk and turned to their left at the end of the bridge, they found themselves on Whitehall Road, leading to Westminster Station.

Chandler knew their night together made things so much harder, but he didn't regret a second of it. It was meant this way. He always believed if something was too good to be true, it usually was, and he resigned himself to the inevitable end of everything good in his life. Breakups and separations were common to him. He wasn't sure he'd call this a breakup though.

Sure, there was the looming loneliness and ambivalence, but this separation, this parting of ways was different, it carried an entirely more visceral sensation – a brutal, sudden end to unexpected love, one to be experienced like death.

He looked at the small space separating their steps. There was a defeated, restless charge between them.

He wished he was an idealist. That maybe someday, they'd run into each other again. With better timing, and more welcoming ground. Maybe he would be wiser and smarter and just plain better. And he would feel like he'd deserve her then, enough to ask her to take a chance on him. But now, at that moment, he surrendered himself to the belief a fire that burned this bright wasn't meant to last.

They stopped when they arrived outside Westminster Station. Standing in silence, their bodies seeming to speak to each other under the sunlight. Chandler lifted her hand and pressed a lingering kiss into her palm. For another while, she didn't speak, couldn't speak past the tight constriction that spread through her chest to take a stranglehold on her throat.

She felt incapable of uttering a  _thank you_  or a  _goodbye_ , and he didn't either. Both were givens.

He let her hand go, and held her gaze, catching a gleam of sadness in Monica's eyes, making them shine as brightly as ever. They were so very blue, he could feel himself sinking into their depths.

And then, she hugged him, fiercely, and he melted into the embrace.

For a couple of minutes, everything narrowed to the feel of the man in her arms, to the certainty that it was real. All of it. Memorizing his face, his scent, feeling grateful and bereft.

Realization dawned on her she would never see him again but she was happy that he had managed to make her feel alive and desired, to know that however long it might take to mend her heart, he had opened and lit something unique and new in her.

She tried to say something to that effect, but the words got caught in her throat. He tugged free from her, and lifted his hand to hail a cab. A car approached them and slowed down.

He turned again to her, and took her hand while the other reached for a sheet of paper from his back pocket. "I wrote something to you last night … Before I came back."

He handed her the paper, and when she was about to open it, he stopped her. "Don't— Don't read it now, read it later, after the wedding."

They looked into each other's eyes as the cab beside them stopped. He hugged her again and she felt his heart beating. He held her hand over his chest. Both their hearts beating at the same rhythm. In sync. He knew, she knew and they smiled at the silent acknowledgment of their feelings.

"Have fun at the wedding," he said at last. "I'm sure you will be the most beautiful woman in the room." He gently kissed her, on her forehead, her cheeks, and her lips. For the last time.

She thought her heart would burst with love and break under the burden of hurt.

Chandler got into the car with his bag, and she closed the door after him. The cab started, and he looked back through the window one last time at her as she was standing still. She thought about leaving, going back to the hotel until she heard the characteristic noise of a car in reverse gear.

It was Chandler's cab, tracking back, and it was him who got out of the car, his breath noticeably short. "That thing about not seeing each other until we're 40, let's — let's not do that?" he almost begged.

He waited expectantly for her reaction, restless and his pulse leaping. His words hit her with the force of a sledgehammer. Slowly, the corners of her lips quirked up, and the small smile bloomed into a full grin. "I don't want to wait until we're 40 either."

He laughed nervously. "Right, what was I thinking? Oh God. You know what? Let's meet again, here, in a year?"

"In a year here?"

"Yes," he said emphatically. He glanced at the cab driver and looked at her again, "Can you find a way to get here?"

"Yes, yes, let's do that. Same day as today. Right here."

He embraced her urgently and pulled her for another kiss. He opened the door and smiled at her, "I'll see you in a year, Monica"

She returned his smile. "I'll see you too, Chandler."

The car started again, she followed it until it disappeared at the end of the street and turned on the left corner before Westminster Bridge.

The cab driver looked at the mirror and studied the young man's expression, it had a mix of sadness, relief, and a fading smile.

"Did you enjoy your stay in London, sir?" he asked.

"Yes."

The car drove on the right side of the River. Once he felt in control of himself again and awareness returned to him, Chandler thought about the sequence of events from the moment he got on a train to London, the places they've been, that he could see now through the window. They remained the same but felt different. He couldn't help feeling an immense surge of wonder at how, in such a low time and when he least expected it, something so richly satisfying came into his life. The most overpowering emotional experience he lived through.

They had inhabited a space in the city together at the same time, in a moment of their lives where everything was supposed to be possible but looked out of reach. Their paths scarcely intertwined, but it was enough to know this was a happy, divine, burning incident given only once. And they might find love again, with something or someone else, but because of its very nature, nothing could ever come close to this.

Was there a silver lining to it? He wondered. It was a surprise to him, this feeling of being truly, intrinsically heartbroken for the first time. It felt like the universe's way of welcoming him in. Love, happiness, loss, heartbreak, shared experiences that made people feel less alone. He felt the joy and ache that comes from knowing exactly how one can fall in love with the world, through an unexpected encounter, in a foreign place that reconnected him with genuine aliveness for the first time, in a long time … or ever.

The revelation softened his features. He realized he was part of something, that he belonged, that he had found a place in the world.

He caught sight of the sun hanging above the city, still rising, and passing through these streets, he recalled every detail. The oppressive history of London became decades and centuries, poverty and wealth, wars and peace, grace and vulgarity, a kaleidoscope of time. Cathedrals, Greek temples, columns, porticos, Georgian brick, residuals of great battles and great fires, but it was still there in all its glory. It was resilient and tenacious, proud and oh so beautiful. Just like her.

In London, there was life everywhere. She was everywhere.

* * *

Monica compelled herself to breathe in, breathe out, before starting to walk and get to the hotel. She walked over Westminster Bridge, a strange feeling settling over her, with the piece of paper he gave her tightly secured in her hand. Head high despite the tears threatening her, praying that her movements didn't look as wooden as they felt, she felt foreign in the city for the first time since she arrived. Chandler felt like home. The way his face would scrunch up when he smiled, his humor and his hands on her skin, were the home she ached for and had been missing for weeks.

London would never be quite like the image she had formed in her mind.

She had been with her fair share of men before. Some she lost, others she left. But never had she ever let herself feel the intricacies of love beyond what was required.

She always numbed up in the aftermath. Moved on quickly. But now, perhaps because it had happened so fast, so unexpectedly, not leaving her time to build up walls — because of a time and a place, and because of him, she didn't want to numb up, and she even found it through the tears. That feeling. Almost fascinating. What movies, people, books talked about when they were talking about love, found and lost, brilliant and painful. What happened when heartbreak happened.

And she smiled. Months ago, a stolen credit card meant she got to witness someone impersonating her and wondering if she would ever live her best life. At that time, it was about doing as much as she could, never leaving a minute left to waste. Throwing out worries, and living frivolously,  _seizing the moment_. By the end of that day, she thought it simply wasn't her. But today, she had lived her best life, and it wasn't about doing things. It was about feeling, experiencing them. Who got to experience love, and yes, heartbreak like that? And it was all hers. Hers and Chandler's. In their own universe. On their own timezone. Their London time.

At the end of the bridge, she couldn't help herself. She looked over the River, and at the letter. She made her decision and made peace with the cost of experiencing love in its fullest, richest form.

**...**

_Monica,_

_I know we said we wouldn't write to each other, not exchange addresses or phone numbers. I will respect that promise. But I felt terribly inarticulate when I said goodbye, you said I was good with words, I'm not so sure, words don't feel enough right now._

_I wanted to tell you how important this day was for me._

_I hope you know the depth of my gratitude for the joy, the laughter, the love we have shared. These are the things I want you to remember, for this day to live on in your memories of happiness as it will live in mine forever. I trust that your heart knows it with the certainty that mine does._

_I don't want to wish you a good life, because I know your life will be great, and it will be happy. And I am certain you will get everything you want._

_Thank you, once again, and for the last time, for elevating my life and illuminating my heart._

_Love,_

_Chandler._

**_..._ **

* * *

_**June 1998** _

After another excruciating lunch shift, Monica changed into her street clothes in the locker room. She tugged on a t-shirt and jeans and left the workday behind her, relieved to turn off —partially— the cooking portion of her brain for the rest of the day.

Once in the subway, however, lost in her thoughts, her eyes wandered until they fell on an elderly couple. A familiar feeling came rushing back, not exactly jealousy but a twinge of longing, and dissatisfaction.

It was a recurring feature of the last few months, a hollowness would hit her in the chest at certain times.

She avoided the subject in the company of friends and family. Thankfully, they didn't seem to notice the evasion. The dry-spell — or a  _voluntary_  dry-spell, as she convinced herself, because she had a career to craft first and foremost and no time to waste. She finally had the job she wanted since culinary school. Head chef of an Italian restaurant; being in charge, at long last, of a stainless steel kitchen, blending ingredients, playing with flavors, shaping a menu and savoring the process.

But she couldn't help it.

Yes, she was supposed to be better than this. She didn't need someone, she didn't have to be with someone, it wasn't the stigma or desperation, or even the loneliness. She had loving friends and family around her.

It was possibly the disillusionment of past relationships. Wondering if there was maybe, or  _definitely_  something wrong with her.

She wanted to feel like she wasn't already spent emotionally. That her romanticism wasn't depleted by two serious relationships that ended on relatively good terms.  _Good terms_. That fact made it worse. There was always something missing — different goals in life, different priorities, always the deal-breaking problems, the ones for which love itself wasn't enough to overcome them.

More importantly, she wanted to know if she let go of her chance, for the _right guy_ , on that one day and one night in London, almost 3 years ago.

And then a year later, when she couldn't make it to London to meet Chandler again because life happened: her dad, hospitalized a few days before the meeting date, Ross's second marriage, crumbling a few months before that, and a former best friend from her childhood showing up to her door, needing a home after an aborted wedding ceremony.

Maybe there was a pattern there, of needing to save and take care of people, but she didn't have time to think about it.

It was a slippery slope whenever she thought about that day. She tried to suppress it and distract herself, but her attempts were always in vain. She could never forget, or more specifically, forget him. Even now, she was wondering what he was doing. Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she was constantly wondering what he was doing.

She left the subway at Christopher's Street Station, in a throng of New Yorkers, rushing through the summer heat, and made her way to her apartment on Bedford Street.

When she opened the door she wasn't surprised to find Phoebe sitting at the table.

"Hey Mon, here is yesterday's Post if you want to check that review of your restaurant."

Monica greeted her and headed to the kitchen, taking out a frosted chicken from the fridge. "Oh come on, who left dishes in the sink?" she asked with an exasperated sigh.

"Don't look at me, I'm not your roommate anymore."

She sat at the table with Phoebe when Rachel emerged from her bedroom.

"I got a date!" Her roommate exclaimed, with the phone in her hand. She headed straight to the bathroom, without elaborating.

The girls shared a smile. Phoebe went to the couch and Monica opened a bottle of water, turning the pages of the newspaper looking for the food and dining section just as Ross came in with Ben. "Hey Mon, are you still on for dinner with Mom and Dad on Friday?" he asked.

He didn't get an answer from his sister. When he turned his attention from his son to her, he caught her frozen face.

"Mon? You okay?"

Monica wasn't moving. She wasn't sure she was breathing. While turning the pages, she thought she recognized a face. She turned them back and found Chandler's picture. Ross and Phoebe turned to her inquisitively. Not wanting to worry them, she stammered before closing the paper. "Em, yeah, I'm okay … Friday night, right. I just remembered I forgot something at the restaurant. I—I better make a call."

She took the paper and headed quickly to her room. Ross and Phoebe shared a skeptic look when they noticed she didn't take the phone with her.

In her room, Monica tried to calm down, sitting on the edge of the bed, and opened the paper to find that page again.

> **NEW YORK POST - ENTERTAINMENT | June 26th, 1998 Issue**
> 
> " _ **BOXING DAY" at THE LUCILLE LORTEL THEATER**_
> 
> _Joseph Tribbiani, an Italian-American actor previously known for playing Dr. Drake Ramoray on the daytime soap Days Of Our Lives, plays VICTOR, and Kate Miller, Yale-educated Broadway actress, plays ADRIENNE, in this play written by the author Jennifer Banberry, known for deciphering and dissecting the psyche of the American middle class, and directed by Marshall Talmant._
> 
> She quickly skipped the review and found the picture at the end of the page. There was Chandler, in a black and white photo, smiling with a slight smirk and posing with a few other people. She read the picture's caption alongside the final paragraph.
> 
> _Below picture, actor Joseph Tribbiani (Center) photographed with a friend (Left) alongside co-star Kate Miller (right) and director Marshall Talmant (far right) at the opening night of BOXING DAY. Performing until June 27th._

She felt overwhelmed by an instant rush of conflicting emotions.

Drawing huge breaths, as if she just came up for air after being oxygen-deprived, she opened her closet, found an orange light sweater — and from a drawer, she took out the receipt of the last-minute canceled flight, dated July 14th, 1996 from New York (JFK) to London (LHR).

* * *

Once the audience started to leave, Chandler headed to the door leading to the backstage area. He made his way to the greenroom where the director and the production staff were, and sat in a chair waiting for the actors to get out of makeup and dress.

It had been the show's last representation and Chandler was there to cheer up Joey after a bad review the play received. Chandler knew how hard Joey worked for this part, how important for him it was to be taken seriously and not be perceived as just a soap actor. He knew his friend needed him for comfort, and how much he could use his favorite sandwich.

There would be a wrap-up party after, with the whole crew. He pondered staying, but truthfully he had no desire to. He wanted to go back to his hotel room and turn in early. Maybe take a walk before going to sleep. He wandered in the streets of New York every night since he got there, especially since Joey was busy dating one of his co-stars.

It haunted him. For a whole week, he thought he saw  _her_. At the corner of a street, in the waiting line of a coffee shop, or leaving a subway station — any woman who looked remotely like her, until she disappeared or turned. He knew he was most likely imagining her, but there was still a possibility.

She lived there somewhere, after all. One out of a million and a half souls in a tiny island. Unless she moved.

He pictured what their meeting would be like during the days preceding his New York trip. Would he get angry? Angry that she didn't show up 2 years before and he did, that he fled all the way from Los Angeles to London only to find out she wasn't there, that he never felt more pathetic and sad in his life?

Or, would he lie, and tell her he never went because she didn't, that he tried to hate her for it but couldn't, that he couldn't even stand the thought of making her feel guilty?

He would tell her how he'd give anything to go back in time, get her name, her address, her phone number— give it a try, work out something, do anything. It would have spared him the heartbreaks that followed, the betrayals he suffered all the while deep down, he was waiting and hoping for  _her_.

Would he tell her how embarrassed he was that he wasn't any better than 3 years ago? He still had that same soul-sucking job, he never really quit smoking, and on the day he came back from London after the failed reunion, he went straight back in the arms of Janice. His life was still filled with the same old patterns: avoidance, insecurity, low self-esteem, a latent commitment-phobia cleverly masking his really wanting commitment.

Would he tell her how just a year ago, he risked the most important relationship in his life for a woman he imagined to be the miracle fix to his problems? How it backfired spectacularly?

Granted, he learned some lessons, but he didn't feel he was better, or worthy of her.

Monica would be better, even better than she was. She just was that kind of person, she wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than perfect, and would conquer anything she set her mind to.

And he wasn't any better because she was the only person that made him want to be better.

One of the production staff brought him out of his thoughts, informing him the actors would take a while longer to be out.

He needed some fresh air, so he went outside and looked for a forgotten cigarette in his coat. There wasn't one. He sat by the sidewalk, taking in the night and the warm summer breeze. He heard footsteps behind him, maybe Joey wouldn't go to the party after all.

He was about to get up, he had left the sandwich inside the theater, when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder that made him sit again.

A friendly, gentle touch, far too gentle to be Joey's hand.

"There you are."

He froze at the words he heard. He couldn't even process their meaning, too caught up by the voice. That voice. He tried to preserve the memory of that voice for years, fighting the power of time and absence, but senses and memories are a funny thing. The moment he heard it, Chandler had no doubt. He'd recognize it everywhere.

A feather-soft voice, dropped to a whisper but with that hint of thinness and ear-piercing intensity characteristic of her.

Excitement tripped through him as he turned. The grandiose ideas and clever words he planned to tell her escaped him. His heart jackhammered at the sight of her. Monica was standing there, towering over him. She was smiling, her hair swept back in a bun, wearing a summery red dress, with a glint flickering in her eyes full of wonder.

He met her gaze, he was ready to get lost in them again. Chandler knew. Her blue eyes were the only ones he wanted to get lost in, from now on and forever.

He sensed her agitation and worry mixed with anticipation. She was wondering how he felt, what he'd say, or what he'd do.

He stood up, took a sharp breath, and once he felt more confident, he returned her smile.

"It's really you."


	10. Epilogue

Chandler woke up to the blast of the alarm, he looked at the covers kicked to the floor. He was naked but felt warm from the heat of the woman wrapped around him all night.

She was naked too and slowly coming into consciousness. His eyes stayed unfocused for a few seconds until she blinked and cleared hers.

"Good morning to you, Mrs. Bing."

"Good morning, Mr. Bing."

Monica smiled at him and a wave of happiness washed over him. She leaned and kissed him in a soft peck. "You know, I'm so glad there was a picture of you in the paper."

"I'm still shocked you came to the theater after seeing  _my_   _picture_  in the paper," he said and she giggled at his self-deprecating tone.

She pushed herself up against the headboard and reached for the phone on the bedside table. "What should we get for our complimentary honeymoon breakfast?" she asked him.

"Your pick." Chandler smiled and bent over the bed to get the covers back.

He closed his eyes for a moment as she stood up, kissed his forehead before moving quickly to the bathroom.

Sleeping in the same bed as Monica was bliss. He didn't get tired of it, even after two years. He thought about the picture that prompted their reunion on a warm summer night. How lucky it was in the first place that he agreed to be in the picture, at Joey's insistence, and the chain of events it generated: They walked around the Village, catching up on each other's lives, rekindling their connection by exchanging stories about their relationship disappointments, professional setbacks, the compromises of adulthood and the passage of time. The deferred reunion he had long yearned for hadn't been anything like he imagined. And it couldn't possibly be. Filling the gaps of three years apart in such a short time made him realize how much they had changed ― She wasn't idealistic about love anymore, she was warier and wearier. She kept talking about time, and how she was close to being 30 and feeling underachieved. All he could do was comfort her, tell her how much better she had been doing compared to him.

And they stopped in front of her apartment building when they finally addressed the enormous unanswered question: Whether they showed up in London a year later. A question Chandler didn't want to bring up, but his skittishness and reluctance didn't fool her. She sensed his guardedness in their conversations ― how he kept asking about her and avoided talking about himself. She made a guess and her heart broke when he told her the truth. She gave him the canceled ticket for her flight as a well-intentioned explanation, he said he didn't hold it against her, that he blamed himself for not making sure they kept in touch before going their separate ways.

He told her about his flight to L.A. the next day and how he started to doubt time was linear given the strange similarity of their second encounter. They went upstairs to her apartment, and each passing minute made them more relaxed, more open with each other. The easy conversation and laughter, the chemistry, it was still there. And they said goodbyes, for what felt like the one-hundredth time, and it was just as sad and painful as the first time.

There were two things Chandler considered to be the bravest decisions of his life: The first one was to ask a stranger on a train to spend the day with him, and the other one was leaving the apartment of the woman he was sure was the love of his life, then taking 10 seconds to reconsider and go back to kiss her, make love to her and decide to devote himself to her happiness.

Chandler never thought of himself as a brave, courageous guy. In fact, he felt like a coward for most things in life, but he knew when it mattered, he stepped up.

It had led to the greatest summer of his life.

He quit his job, left Los Angeles for New York, moved into her West Village apartment while Joey moved in across the hall. She introduced him to her friends, her family, the coffeehouse where they hung out, the restaurant she worked at. She helped him look for another job and find a new passion.

He listened to her singing while cleaning the apartment multiple times when she was stressed. He took her to a jazz club, danced with her to the Swing Kings and decided he was going to marry her one day. She cooked him macaroni and cheese with cut-up hotdogs to cheer him up after a long day at his new advertising job.

They went to see Joey's plays and tried to come up with the flimsiest compliments. They played tennis and she broke her racket when she lost the first time then he let her win the second time. They went grocery shopping and he carried the bags, until she realized they forgot the one thing they needed. They spent evenings watching TV snuggled together, mornings sleeping lazily in bed, afternoons strolling in Central Park, nights talking and moaning and screaming.

He had never thought it could be this easy, this simple and free. He never thought he could be this happy. And happier when he proposed and she said yes, just over one year ago.

And now she was his wife.

His eyes opened when she came out of the bathroom, she took off her robe and joined him, cuddled in the bed under the covers. His eyes roaming over her, he left a trail of kisses over her shoulders. "Do you remember what I said to you in London?" he said, his voice hoarse as he felt her melting into the sheets.

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Chandler, we talked for hours. Could you be more specific?"

He stared at her face for another few breaths, hovering above her. "That thing I said about marriage."

He watched her smile coming out in her voice. "You said a lot of things about marriage that day, mostly how it was the worst thing humanity invented since the atomic bomb."

"I don't recall using those  _exact_  words," he muttered under his breath. "Anyhow, by the end of the day, I said if I had to choose between not seeing you again and marrying you, I would marry you right there. You remember?"

"Of course, I remember." She rustled the sheets, and then they were face to face. She lifted her hand, brushing a thumb over his jaw. "I remember everything," she added in a whisper. Chandler felt a thrill rolling through his chest and into his throat.

"I am so happy I didn't wait until you were 40 to marry you," he said, raw emotion painting his expression.

"I'm happy you didn't."

He cupped her cheek, and kissed her. His fingers slid into her hair, and his tongue swept across hers as Monica deepened the kiss, her lips eagerly exploring his.

When he broke the kiss, she was panting. Her hair was messy. Her lips were  
swollen and red. Her blue eyes shining with desire. She never looked more beautiful to him than she did right then, he never felt luckier than he did at that moment.

"Married sex is even better than London sex," she said, her voice low and slow.

A smile spread across his face, and his eyes twinkled with mischief.

"The honeymoon suite deserves the very best of sex."

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, traveling slowly to her jaw until he reached her neck and she stopped him. She held his gaze, a hungry, possessive expression on her face.

"I love you, Chandler."

He smiled and thanked his lucky stars, for London, for New York, for every moment leading to this one. She was his, and he was hers.

To fall in love, and to be loved ― it was more than he ever asked for, more happiness than he ever thought one man could handle.

"I love you too, Monica."

* * *

"So, where do we put him?"

"Anywhere out of human sight?"

"Oh come on. I thought you've grown to like the dog."

Monica stared at the white ceramic white dog with narrowed brows, she thought she had made her feelings about it clear. In fact, she was convinced Chandler himself wasn't the biggest fan of the 'decorative' item, but he had an understandable emotional attachment to it. It was Joey's gift, a symbol of their friendship going all the way from their days as roommates in L.A. Consequently, she was able to accept it in their apartment, but that didn't mean she wanted to look at it every day, especially not in their brand new house where it would ruin any kind of space or visual harmony.

"I did like it. When it was on the balcony."

"Please don't call him  _it_ ," said Chandler with feigned hurt as she let out a bursting laugh.

She walked back to the middle of the living room, sweeping her eyes around the house like a military general strategizing his next move. She picked up a pen and a clipboard.

"Ok, the nursery is all set, the babies are asleep, the to-buy list is done."

Chandler sighed in relief, he slumped onto the couch and closed his eyes. "Oh thank God, I can't feel my arms."

"It's time for the cleaning list!" Monica exclaimed cheerfully, making Chandler open his eyes in shock. "Wait, what .. Mon―"

"I've been thinking, we could improve the furniture placement. What if we move the couch a quarter inch to the left?"

"No, no, we can leave the stuff―"

"You know what, these windows could really use a power-wash."

"Monica!"

The loud voice Chandler so rarely employed brought her out of her mental checklist frenzy. She relaxed when he approached her, standing from behind to wrap his arms around her.

"Gee, Chandler, not so loud, the babies are asleep," she said, looking up at him with a pout.

"All right." He sighed dejectedly. He brought her closer and hugged her tightly. "Let's take a breath." Chandler inhaled theatrically, encouraging her to do the same. She followed him, and breathed in, reluctantly closing her eyes. "Yes, like that," he added with an air of satisfaction.

"We will unpack everything first thing in the morning. But for now, let's relax a little."

Monica let her head rest on his shoulder. "You're right. Great advice." She paused before adding, "Not applicable but great advice."

She turned to face him, and a worried expression graced her features. "I'm a little freaked out, Chandler."

"I know. Me too, Mon. Everything will be fine. The place will look great, our babies are home." Chandler grinned and kissed her hair.

"They're really here, Chandler. It's not a dream, right?"

"It's not a dream, they're really here, and this is really our new house." They smiled, and Chandler took her hand. "Let's check on them."

"Wait!"

Chandler looked back and Monica stopped in her tracks. She went to a box labeled  _IMPORTANT_  ― and picked up a double-framed picture, one side featuring their wedding picture, and the other side displaying Chandler's letter from their day in London. She placed it on the small table by the couch, and joined Chandler, witnessing the scene and beaming.

They walked upstairs quietly, and opened the door to the nursery with caution. Jack was sleeping in his crib, and Erica was sleeping in the one they borrowed last minute from Ross and Rachel.

Monica looked longingly at the babies sleeping, with Chandler close behind her.

The minute Jack was placed in her arms, mere hours ago, gazing at her with inquisitive slate-grey eyes, she had felt a swirl of emotions, sadness for the birth mother, and joy that she was finally one herself. She had looked at Chandler holding Erica, and felt overwhelmed by the fact they were now responsible for two human lives.

"I love them so much," she whispered to her husband.

She anticipated the following few weeks to be just as crazy as the day of their birth. Moving with two newborns hadn't been the plan. Two babies, who didn't grow in her body ― It was going to take time to form that bond between mother, father and children.

"It's hard to believe this is the first day of their life," Chandler said.

A year before, she remembered Chandler, on the cusp of tears, trying to tell her the difficult, impossible news that they couldn't conceive. They cried for days, taking turns to comfort each other. Overcoming that injustice, mourning that dream, was the hardest thing she ever had to do.

But with Chandler, she knew they would figure it out. They had found each other after years apart, they overcame timing and geography, they would overcome this too. They couldn't just give up.

As it turned out they didn't get what they wanted, instead they got something better ― Two beautiful children. Children who needed them, needed a home, and they promised to themselves they would give the twins the best home a child could hope for.

Monica wouldn't openly admit it, but deep in her heart, she held the belief there was a plan intended for them, and for their children. There had been a glitch, and the universe needed to correct its mistake. Jack and Erica were their children, and they were their parents, and that had always been intended.

They had waited for so long. Monica had waited before — for Chandler, for her dream job, for her life to come together, but she never knew the true meaning of waiting until she became a hopeful adoptive parent.

It was trying and discouraging and unfair.

But the desire to become a parent, and Chandler's love and support, made it all worth it.

They were worth the wait. From the moment the twins were born, life changed completely and irrevocably, the feelings came rushing together, she and Chandler were transformed into parents. The love they had for their babies would surpass biology, natural order, and anything life would throw at them.

"I still think he has your eyes."

Chandler's voice brought her back to the moment, as she was staring at Erica. She joined her husband who was gawking at their son.

"He reminds me of you," she replied in a quiet voice.

"Look at his arms, he's going to be a football player too. He's definitely all you."

Monica couldn't help a small, soft laugh, and kissed Chandler on the cheek. She knew he was comforting her, that he would do everything to make sure she never doubted herself as their mother. It's what Chandler always did, worry about her before worrying about himself. As she looked again at Jack, scrunching up his face, with his eyes closed before softening again, she knew the man he would grow up to be would be all Chandler inside.

And she looked again at Erica, convinced with an unshakable faith that she was her real mother and Erica was her real daughter. They loved them without conditions and without limits, and like all children, Erica and Jack would be a blend of their own personalities and theirs.

She heard noises coming from Jack's crib, and before she could pay attention to him, she turned to find Chandler already holding him and gently rocking him.

He had promised her children and love, and questioned whether he was  _husband and father material_. But there was no doubt to her, he was already a father, always had been, he just didn't know it.

She looked at him, and basked in the warmth and love that filled her heart. It was better than any fantasy she had as a kid, or any plan she meticulously concocted as soon she reached adulthood.

It was better because it didn't need to be perfect, it was better because it was real.

Chandler was her husband, Chandler was the father of their two beautiful children. He was the truest thing she had ever known.

It took a long time for them to come together, to become a family, but watching him, nuzzling his son to sleep, she knew with utmost certainty that she wouldn't change a moment of it.

There was no finer sight in the world.


End file.
